


A Child of Two Worlds

by Painted Writer (sleepwalkingdreamer)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, fictional archaeology, tomb-diving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 11:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/722943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepwalkingdreamer/pseuds/Painted%20Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gratiana Varinius is the daughter of a scholar from Bruma, half-Imperial and half-Nord. Captured illegally crossing the border to escape the Thalmor, the dragon’s attack on Helgen sets her on an interesting course – a course that could lead to war, to vengeance, to love – and, perhaps, to the father she so desires to meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death from the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own Elder Scrolls: Skyrim or any of the other Elder Scrolls games; they are the property of Bethesda Studios and its creators. I don’t own the Dragonborn either, but her story, past and present, as I have written it for this piece is entirely my own doing, and is not connected to whatever plans Bethesda has for the character in future games.
> 
> RATING: Very high PG-13/T, may go up if I feel like it.

Pain lit through Gratiana Varinius’s entire body like the worst kind of Shock spell, and she jolted awake with a gasp. Cold air filled her lungs at her sharply indrawn breath, and though the sunlight was weak, it washed through her eyes and into her head like a wave of fire.

Fire, Frost, and Lightning: she had been on the receiving end of each spell, and once, in an incident that involved far more draugr than she cared to remember, she was blasted with all three, but it had not felt like this.

“So you’re finally awake.”

Nord. There was no denying that accent. She blinked away the spots in her vision to focus on the speaker, and found herself looking at a man, no older than thirty perhaps, with the blonde hair, blue eyes, and muscular build so typical to those of Nordic descent. His clothes were grimy with dirt and blood, neither of which did anything to disguise the insignia embroidered (or was it painted?) on his cloak.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. The man was a Stormcloak.

The man chuckled. “What is it, girl? Never seen a Nord before?”

She lifted her gaze to meet his, hoping he had taken her narrowed eyes as nothing more than an attempt to get her gaze to focus. “No,” she said softly, her voice hoarse from lack of use. How long had she been unconscious? “I have met my fair share of Nords.”

The man’s eyes widened. No doubt it was because of her accent: mostly Cyrodiilic, but with a hint of the Nord underneath it as well. “So it seems,” he said at last, and seemed to relax, as if the tone of her words had softened him towards her somewhat. “You from Bruma, then?”

She nodded, still not quite trusting her voice. Carefully she straightened, ignoring the bright flashes of pain throughout her body and the heaviness of her head. When she was finally in an actual sitting position, and not slumped over like a sack of potatoes, she asked, “What in the name of the Divines just _happened_?”

“We were captured by Imperials,” said another man: a small, weaselly-looking fellow, a Nord whom Gratiana hadn’t noticed had been sitting on the same bench as the Stormcloak until he had spoken. “But you and I don’t belong here, though; they must have mistaken us for one of these Stormcloak rebels.”

“Pah!” spat the Stormcloak. “You belong here as much as any of us do, horse-thief.”

The horse thief shook his head vigorously. “One last heist,” he muttered. “One last heist, and then I could run all the way to Hammerfell and enjoy my fortune. But then I just had to get caught because you bloody rebels had to be there too! Damn you Stormcloaks!”

“Shut your mouth!” the other Nord snarled. “You are in the presence of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!”

Even Gratiana’s eyes widened at that statement. She glanced to her right, and found another Nord sitting next to her. Unlike the rest of them, however, it appeared that he was weighed down with more chains, and, more importantly, he was gagged. It was the gag that confirmed his identity in Gratiana’s mind. After all, the rest of them had not been gagged, so why gag him, if his voice were not a weapon in itself?

She had heard the rumors, the stories drifting down from the Imperial garrison in Bruma and from merchants who used Bruma as their main entry and exit point in and out of Skyrim.

Ulfric Stormcloak had challenged High King Torygg to a duel for the throne of Skyrim.

Torygg had accepted the challenge to his throne, as any true Nord would.

Ulfric Stormcloak had used the Thu’um, the Shout, to all but shatter Torygg’s body into a thousand pieces, and then finished him off with a stab of his blade.

The result: Skyrim was dancing on the edge of civil war.

“Ulfric Stormcloak?” the horse thief breathed. “But- But if you’re Ulfric Stormcloak-”

A large shadow passed over them then, and Gratiana looked up just as the wagon passed under the archway of a gate. She did not need to know where they were being taken; she had a very good guess where they were headed, if this was indeed the leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion sitting next to her. She also had a very good idea what was going to happen to them once they got there.

“We’re being taken to Helgen, you blubbering idiot,” the Stormcloak said, his voice calm and at peace with their situation. “They’re to execute us, I wager.”

“Execute?!” the thief squealed. “I- I don’t want to die! I don’t deserve to die! I’m not a rebel!”

Gratiana exhaled, and closed her eyes. Fool.

“Shut up, you miserable little coward,” the Stormcloak growled, making the word “coward” sound like the foulest insult in the world – and, amongst Nords, that was certainly true. “Don’t you want to enter Sovngarde with some measure of dignity?”

“I don’t want to be here!” the thief shrieked. “I don’t want any of this!” He began looking wildly about. “I- I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here!”

“Shut up back there!” yelled the cart driver, just as another shadow passed over them, and Gratiana realized they had entered the fort itself.

As the thief continued to panic, the Stormcloak sighed, and shook his head. He looked around at the town, and his lips curved into a small, nostalgic smile. “I used to be sweet on a girl from Helgen,” he murmured. “Wonder if Vilod still makes that mead with the juniper berries in it?”

Gratiana allowed herself to chuckle. She gave the Nord a wry smile. “Enough of that where you are going, no doubt.”

“Oho! So the Imperial lass with the sounds of Skyrim in her voice knows something of Sovngarde?”

“Only what I learned in Bruma.” She sighed, and closed her eyes again. “If that’s what awaits one at the end of one’s life, I suppose dying isn’t so bad after all.”

The Nord threw his head back, and laughed. “Do you hear that, horse-thief? The girl has more steel in her spine than you do!”

“More, soon enough. Or it could very well be iron. I doubt anyone knows if the headsman’s axe is iron or steel.” Gratiana said, her tone wry once more. She rather liked the banter the Nord had begun. He was a Stormcloak, to be sure, but what did it matter? She was going to die anyway, and at this moment they were all brothers and sisters in the gallows, as it were. And if she was going to die today, then by the Divines, she would go laughing – especially if it wasn’t some Thalmor wielding the axe. She knew her mother would approve, as would the father she would never get to meet.

Not meeting her father…that was the only regret she would carry with her into the next life, whatever it might be.

The Stormcloak’s laughter was a thunder that was more comforting than the far more distant rumbling that Gratiana could hear echoing off the mountains. Was a storm coming? She opened her eyes to look at the sky. The cloud cover did not look particularly thick, so she doubted a storm was on its way.

And yet, what was that rumbling she could hear? It seemed to come from the direction of the mountains, the same direction a storm would come from, and yet she could tell it wasn’t a storm. If she tried, she thought she could hear words in the rumbling, like the faint murmuring of conversation from across an inn’s common room. She tried to concentrate, sensing that, if she tried hard enough, she could actually make out the words…

The wagon drew to a sudden halt, snapping her out of her musings. She glanced around, and realized that they had arrived.

“End of the line!” the wagon driver yelled, and somewhere nearby she heard a Redguard woman – an Imperial captain, if her armor was anything to go by – barking out orders for everybody to get off the wagons and line up.

Gratiana got to her feet slowly, the pain fading away to a dull ache. Ever since she had heard the thunder in the mountains there was a rather dreamlike quality to the world, and she attributed this to the fact that she was about to die. When faced with certain death very little else mattered, and so reality seemed to recede as if in preparation for the arrival of the final end. Ahead of her she watched as the horse-thief completely lost his head, and ran off in an attempt to escape. He was shot down by archers on the walls.

She did not care; though she mused it was not the way she would have chosen to go.

Beside her, the Stormcloak sighed quietly. “Shot in the back while fleeing for your life. What an undignified way to die.”

Gratiana hummed a noncommittal sound, still lost in her thoughts. Though a part of her registered the fact that the Stormcloaks ahead of her, including Ulfric, were called forward and led away after their names had been checked against a list, she was not really paying it much attention. There was that distant rumbling again, and it was much closer – so close that if she could just focus long enough-

“You there! Imperial! Come forward!”

Gratiana jerked out of her thoughts, and realized that the Redguard captain she had been hearing earlier and the soldier next to her were looking at her – the woman with a look of annoyance, as if she had someplace else she could be, and the soldier with a look of surprise and some confusion.

“You’re a long way from the Imperial City,” the soldier remarked – a Nord, if his accent was anything to go by, an accent as pure as the Stormcloak’s. “What’re you doing in Skyrim?”

“It doesn’t matter what she’s doing in Skyrim,” the captain growled. “Name!”

“Gratiana Varinius,” Gratiana replied, her voice soft and rather dreamy-sounding, even to herself. The rumbling voice – she was sure it was a voice now, not thunder – was getting closer, and she could not help but listen to it, even if it came at the expense of her focus on other things.

The captain blinked at that, her stern expression relaxing into something akin to surprise. “Varinius?”

Gratiana did not say a word, knowing why the woman was surprised. Her mother’s family carried quite a bit of weight in the Imperial City, even with the growing power of the Dominion. For a moment she wondered if this Redguard would let her go, out of consideration for the fact that she could quite possibly be a scion of House Varinius.

But it appeared that was not the case, because a moment later the captain declared that since Gratiana had been caught in the company of rebels, she was going to die as well, despite her family name. In truth, however, Gratiana was rather pleased her mother’s family name would not get her out of this. It was one less thing she would owe them.

The soldier wrote her name down in his ledger, and nodded almost sadly. “We shall send your remains to Cyrodiil.”

Gratiana resisted the urge to snort. There was hardly any point in sending her remains to Cyrodiil. Even if they did find out that she was from Bruma, there would be no one to take them, no one to say the proper prayers or conduct the proper rituals to ensure that she passed into the next life in peace. And she doubted her mother’s family would want anything to do with the remains of the family pariah’s bastard daughter.

The voice in the thunder seemed closer now, almost overhead, and though the words were clearer, she could not understand them. The language sounded rather familiar, however. If she could focus long enough, if she could concentrate hard enough, she could quite possibly figure out what the thunder was saying…

While she was thus preoccupied, one of the Stormcloaks was executed, and then it was her turn. As the Redguard called her forward, the Nord she had been speaking with murmured that someone who went to her death as bravely as she did would certainly be welcomed into Sovngarde, despite being an Imperial.

But Gratiana knew she wasn’t facing death calmly; she was facing it in a distracted frame of mind. The words in the thunder were clear now, and though she still could not understand all of them, there was one word that stood out, a word that seemed to tug at the very core of her being:

_“Dovahkiin…”_

She went down to her knees obediently at the execution block, lay her head down willingly, her face turned to look at the enormous Redguard executioner. Her mother had taught her that it was better to look death straight in the eye when it arrived, to show no fear – Nord wisdom she had picked up from Gratiana’s father.

Gratiana found it in herself to smile when she realized that the executioner’s axe was made of steel, polished to a high sheen but now coated in a slick of blood from the first execution. There would be more steel in her spine, after all.

_“Dovahkiin…”_

A distant cry like the scream of a bird-of-prey resounded over the fort – except this did not quite sound like any bird-of-prey anyone had ever heard. It was deeper, and far more unnerving.

“What was that?” the executioner asked, looking around at the sky over his head.

“It was nothing,” said the captain. “Proceed with the execution!”

_“Dovahkiin!”_

Gratiana wondered if it was she who first saw it: the giant winged shape, swooping out of the clouds like in the stories her mother told her when she was small, beautiful and terrible at the same time. It angled into a turn, let out another cry, and then landed on the tower behind the executioner.

She met the dragon’s eyes, glowing with a pale fire of many colors – and, much to her confusion, felt a sense of kinship with the great creature. The fire in its eyes seemed to light an answering fire in her heart, in her blood, and as its massive head swung in her direction, she got a sense of her impending doom. More than the Redguard captain, more than the Thalmor, more than anything and anyone else, _this_ creature wanted her _dead._

She would not die with steel in her spine. Her death had come from the skies on wings of legend, and she was staring it straight in the eye.

The dragon opened its maw, from which emerged a word:

_“Strun!”_


	2. First Steps to the Horizon

It felt like she was underwater. Had she fallen asleep in the tub again? That happened sometimes; her mother always scolded her for doing it, saying that she was no Argonian and so would easily drown if she didn’t take care-

A shrill scream pierced the haze then, along with another kind of scream, one that made her head ache at the sound of it. Memory returned to her, as slowly as her consciousness: caught alongside Stormcloaks, brought to Helgen, prepared for execution-

_Dragon._

“-come on!”

A groan crawled out of Gratiana’s throat as full consciousness returned to her. Her vision was hazy for a moment, but when it finally cleared, she realized two things: first, that she was still alive. And second, that Helgen was going down in flames all around her.

“Get up!”

She obeyed the voice, staggering to her feet despite the heaviness of her head. She looked back at the speaker, who was standing behind her and helping her get to her feet, and realized it was the Stormcloak she had been speaking to earlier.

“Come on,” he said, voice urgent as he kept an eye on the sky overhead. “Let’s get to the tower.”

Gratiana wanted to ask which tower that was, since there were always many towers in a fort like Helgen, but soon realized which one he was referring to: the one directly across from them, since it was the only one left standing.

She did not argue with him, merely struggled to get her body into motion as they scurried across the open ground and into the safety of the tower, breathing sighs of relief when they made it inside without the dragon noticing them.

“All right, Ralof?”

Gratiana turned to look at the speaker, and realized that it was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself. During some point in the confusion someone must have removed his chains and gag, and armed him, as well.

She heard Ralof – for that was the Stormcloak’s name – reply something in the affirmative, to which Ulfric nodded, and then focused his gaze on her. His eyes – a green as pure as the forests of Skyrim – bored into her, and stirred something in Gratiana’s mind, though she could not quite pinpoint what it was over the sudden thrum of her blood in her head.

Somewhere above them, they heard a rush of wind, followed by the dragon’s roar.

Ulfric swore then, his attention drawn away from her to the chaos just outside. “We’ll all have to leave this place,” he muttered. Looking at Ralof once more, he pointed at Gratiana, and said, “Get her out of here, and yourself as well. If you find anyone else that we know, get them to safety too.”

And without another word, he dashed out into the open, disappearing into the miasma of smoke and dust stirred up by the dragon.

Ralof shook his head, and turned once more to Gratiana. “Come on, girl, you heard him.” He turned towards the stairs of the tower, and started heading up.

“What are you doing?!” Gratiana demanded, running as best as she could after Ralof and tugging on his arm. “You can’t go up there! There’s no way out!”

And the dragon was up there, she did not say. She did not know how she knew, but she knew with such certainty as to claim it indisputable fact, the same way she knew that the sky was indisputably blue.

Ralof tugged back, and she actually stumbled up a few steps. “It’s the only way out. There’s a window at the top of these stairs that looks out on the inn next door. We can jump from here to there, and make it into the keep.”

“And just how do you know that can be done?” Gratiana asked.

“I’ve been to Helgen many a time. I know it as well as the Imperials that run it – better, even.” He grinned then, and slapped her on the shoulder. “Ulfric said to keep you safe, and I’m doing precisely that.”

Gratiana wondered then what kind of leader Ulfric Stormcloak was, that he could inspire such loyalty in his men that they would risk saving another at the cost of their own safety, but there was not a lot of time to linger on such thoughts. She dashed up after Ralof, wishing that someone had thought to cut her bonds so that she could at least pick up a weapon to defend herself. But there was no time for that.

_“Yol!”_

She got the wind knocked out of her as Ralof hurled himself back with a roar, sending her crashing back down to the bottom of the stairs. She rolled out of the way just in time to see Ralof crash on the exact same spot she had been earlier, his arms already covered in blisters.

She focused on a healing spell, feeling the magic rise through her body to pool in her left hand. She did not have a lot of strength, so she was only to able to heal the burns a little before she had to let the spell go, unable to continue without draining herself dry.

She looked at Ralof, and offered him a small smile in response to the grateful look he gave her. “It’s not much, I’m afraid, but at least you won’t lose your arms.”

“Which is more than anyone else, much less an Imperial, would have done.” He stood, wincing only slightly when he moved his arms, and helped her to her feet. He glanced at her bonds, and frowned. “I’ll cut those when I find something sharp enough for it.”

Gratiana nodded in acknowledgement, and tipped her chin up to the stairs. “Still think we should go that way?”

Ralof scowled. “We have no choice, girl. We’re more likely to attract the dragon’s – and the soldiers’ – attention if we crossed open ground. No, this way is better. We just have to hope it isn’t there anymore.”

“Lovely,” Gratiana muttered, but followed Ralof anyway, praying to any of the Divines that would hear her that the dragon would not be there when they got to the window.

And perhaps at least one Divine was listening, because the dragon was nowhere to be found once they reached the window. Ralof leaned out, and nodded to himself before stepping back. “You first, girl.”

Gratiana cautiously stepped up to the ledge, and looked around. Across the tower was another, half-collapsed building – the inn Ralof had mentioned earlier – and a portion of the shattered roof granted them entrance to the floor immediately underneath it. It was, however, a rather long jump.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of flame that seemed a little too close for comfort, and Gratiana knew it was either she get moving, or die where she stood. With that thought in mind, she inhaled deeply, took one final look to ensure her aim, and leaped.

The moment of weightlessness while she was in midair was the most awful part of it. She knew she had somehow made it across the gap between tower and inn, but if her landing was even just slightly off she could land on the sloping lower roof of the structure, or, worse, impale herself on one of the shattered beams. But once more, some Divine must have been interested in ensuring her safety, because she landed within the confines of the building with nothing more than a bone-jarring thud that made her teeth clatter together, and nothing worse than that.

She did not even bother to glance back behind her to check if Ralof was following; she knew he would, somehow. Instead, she dashed down the steps to the ground floor, and burst out into the open.

It was chaos. She had heard stories of the violence and destruction during the Great War, but she doubted it was anything like what she was seeing at the moment. Most of the civilian buildings were on fire, their thatch roofs making excellent tinder. Out of the corner of her eye she saw dead bodies, some in Imperial armor, others in Stormcloak garb, but many more in civilian clothes, curled up against walls or on the floor, but she ignored them. She did not want to think about them, not right then.

She dashed out into bright sunlight, and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the dragon. It had landed in a patch of open space in the middle of the fort, and had set its sights on a lone Imperial soldier, who was doing his best to distract the monstrous beast from a father and son who were trying to get to safety.

The thrum in her head reached thunderous proportions in the presence of the dragon, and it was all she could do not to scream at the sound of it. The words boomed in her skull, each one a hammer-strike that threatened to smash her head open.

The soldier saw her then, and yelled something at her, but she did not hear it over the voice in her head. She did, however, recognize the gesture he made to follow him, and so she did. Anything to get away from the roaring in her head that she knew now had to be the dragon.

She ducked and jumped under and around chunks of masonry, doing her best to follow the Imperial soldier while keeping out of sight of the dragon. It was a good thing that the soldier was trying to do the exact same thing, which made escaping the creature’s attentions a little easier.

_“Dovahkiin!”_

Gratiana shook her head hard, as if she could shake the roar out from between her ears. It did not quite clear the reverberations from her skull, but it did clear her thinking long enough to spot Ralof – Divines only knew where he had come from in the chaos – calling out to her, even as the Imperial roundly cursed him for his betrayal. Had they known each other somehow?

It did not matter. Despite the kindness the Imperial had shown her, and despite any misgivings she had about Stormcloaks, she was more inclined to follow Ralof at the moment. It was far easier, after all, to follow someone who was less likely to hand her over to the Thalmor, than to follow someone who might.

Choice made, she ran after Ralof, keeping as low to the ground as possible in an attempt to avoid getting the dragon’s attention. Soon enough, they ducked into one of the keep’s towers, and when Ralof slammed the door behind them with a resounding thud, Gratiana finally allowed herself to breathe a little easier – despite the still-present roaring in her skull.

Ralof glanced over at her, and grinned. “Still whole, I take it?”

“Whole enough,” Gratiana muttered, straightening as she held her still-bound hands out to Stormcloak. “Still inclined to fix this little problem?”

Ralof looked at her, wounded, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “I keep the promises I make, girl.” He drew his dagger – where in the world had he found it? – and sliced through the ropes that held her wrists together.

Gratiana groaned in relief as blood rushed into her hands, and she looked around as she tried to massage the pins and needles out of them, trying to find a weapon of her own. A sword, and a bow, and some armor, that would do…

“Over there.”

Gratiana glanced in the direction Ralof had pointed her to, and saw a dead Imperial lying against the far wall. Gratiana went over to it, and methodically stripped it of its sword and (thankfully) light armor – all except the helmet. She did not like the way that particular piece of armor obscured her peripheral vision, which she relied on a lot – the result of having been ambushed in cramped spaces by draugr. She looked around further, and found a bow and a quiver on a nearby shelf. Slinging the quiver over her shoulder, she picked up the bow and tested the draw.

She grimaced. In draw weight and flexibility, the standard-issue Imperial bow had nothing on the beautiful Elven weapon she used to wield, but it would do under these circumstances. She turned to Ralof, and responded to his raised eyebrow with one of her own.

“Never took you for the archer-type,” he explained as he looted an axe from a dead Stormcloak.

“My mother’s influence,” Gratiana replied. “She said that if I was going to be fighting anything, it would be from a distance.”

“And yet you wield a sword.”

“Insurance, for when they get too close – or just won’t stay dead.”

Ralof’s laughter boomed again. “I like the way you think. You’ll make it in Skyrim, yet.” He sobered quickly, however, as he tucked the axe into a loop on his belt. “Come, girl. We have to try to find our way out of here.”

“My name is not ‘girl’,” Gratiana stated as she tightened the scabbard-belt around her hips, drawing the sword once to make sure it would come out without sticking and then sliding it back into its sheath.

Ralof blinked at that. “Very well. What was it the Imperials called you? Gratiana Varinius?”

“Yes, though Gratiana will do just fine.” She grinned as she moved to stand beside the Nord.

Ralof nodded, though he did mutter something about Imperial names being “too much of a mouthful; would do better with a proper Nord name,” before he gestured to the gate in front of them. “Through here then, Gratiana. Down this way lies freedom.”

 

* * *

 

Ralof sucked in a breath as he straightened, sliding the handle of his axe into the loop hanging off his belt. He glanced around him, mentally counting bodies. He’d killed a good few of the Imperials – most of them had deep, fatal cuts on various body parts, and one whose head was just barely hanging onto her neck – but there were also quite a few that had arrows sticking out them.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up as he remembered hearing arrows whistling all around him, a sound he’d automatically blocked out to focus on killing his enemies. Never once had any of them so much as grazed him, and the fighting had been very close-quarters indeed.

Gratiana was good – very good.

“Been training with Bosmer, girl?” he asked when he heard the soft, whispering footsteps that he’d come to associate with Gratiana. “And maybe some Khajiit, while you were at it?”

The woman’s laughter was soft, but pleasantly low. “Nothing so spectacular. I just learned to walk softly, and to shoot very well, because it was the only way to survive diving into Nord tombs.”

Ralof raised an eyebrow as he watched her retrieve arrows from the corpses, checking their tips before throwing away the ones she thought were no longer useful, and cleaning the still-useful ones before putting them back into her quiver. “You went digging into tombs?” Why would an Imperial be interested in the old cairns and deep tombs of the ancient Nords?

“With my mother, yes.” Gratiana’s face seemed to soften somewhat, at the mention of her mother, but there was also some ice there, too, in her eyes. “It was her lifelong passion, and when I was old enough to understand what she was doing I came to love it, too.”

“Ah.” Those tombs were notorious for being littered with deadly traps, not to mention spiders and draugr. It explained why Gratiana had the skills she had.

“Wait.”

Ralof stopped immediately. “What?” he asked, glancing at Gratiana, who was looking back at him. “What is it?”

Gratiana gestured with her right hand for him to come closer, and Ralof did so, albeit a bit hesitantly. It was only then that he noticed the glow of magic around Gratiana’s left hand, but his protests were silenced by the soft warmth that flowed into him from that left hand.

A moment later, Gratiana pulled her hand back and let the spell go, and Ralof could hear it snuffing out like a flame being sucked in on itself. “Better?” she asked.

“I- Yes.” Ralof glanced down at his arms, seeing with his eyes what his body already knew: the many cuts and bruises he’d received during the course of the fight had healed over, some disappearing entirely, some forming into scars that remained but did not hurt.

He glanced up at Gratiana, who answered his unspoken question with a shrug. “Draugr can smell blood. Better to heal wounds as quickly as possible, and Restoration magic is far more convenient than carting multiple potions around.”

“But aren’t they drawn to magic, too?”

“There are ways of masking magic, but it’s easier to kill all the draugr in an area before casting magic. Even the ones that look genuinely dead deserve a stab or two, just to make sure.”

Ralolf chuckled. “If you’re not afraid of the dead or of curses, you could make a good living, diving into the tombs.”

“Perhaps, but not too good a living. I came to Skyrim to disappear.”

“Oh? From what?” Ralof felt a prickling sensation against the back of his neck, and when he turned to look he saw that Gratiana was glaring at him, and it was only then that he realized her eyes were gray – a gray so pure and hard it was like the edge of a fine steel sword. At length, she turned away, and stalked ahead of him down the cavern, her posture stiff.

He blew out a breath. Well, he wouldn’t be getting any answers to that particular question anytime soon. A pity, really: Gratiana was quite interesting. He’d seen quite a few like her – children of Imperials and Nords, not entirely uncommon in Bruma – but the ones he’d encountered had tended to be as soft as whichever Imperial helped spawn them.

Gratiana Varinius was different. For all that she looked like an Imperial, and had that uptight Imperial name, she was much more like the Nord women Ralof had grown up with and with whom he served as a Stormcloak. His gaze on Gratiana’s back became speculative. Speaking of the Stormcloaks…

Gratiana eventually slowed enough that he managed to catch up with her, but he did not repeat the question. They walked together in silence for a while, until Gratiana stopped, straightening up as she inhaled deeply.

“What?” Ralof asked, stopping beside her.

“It smells damp.” She closed her eyes, and inhaled again, this time her brow creasing slightly. “Damp…but clean damp. And I think I smell fresh air.”

Ralof nodded, grinning. “Then we’re getting close to the exit. Come on.”

The two of them picked up their pace, excited to be out in the open again. But just before they got to the exit, a soft rumbling sound stopped Ralof dead in his tracks. He knew that sound, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“That doesn't sound right,” Gratiana muttered as she came up behind him, crouched low in the shadows so she could hide herself.

“Bear.” Ralof nodded to what looked like a nondescript boulder over beside a pillar of rock, but which was no boulder at all because the topmost part of it steadily rose and fell as the creature breathed. “It appears to be sleeping, so we can sneak past it to the exit. Or…” and here he looked at her over his shoulder, “you can show me just how good an archer you are. That pelt will bring some money you could use.”

He thought he saw Gratiana raise an eyebrow at him, but she unshouldered her bow, and quietly plucked an arrow from her quiver. Ralof watched as she nocked the arrow, and pulled the string back in one smooth motion. She held it there, the arrow quivering only very slightly where it rested on her finger, and he heard her breathe in, breathe out, hold it – and then fire.

He couldn’t see where the arrow struck, but it didn’t matter. Gratiana hadn’t managed to hit the bear fatally, and so it was awake, and charging right at them.

“On your feet!” he yelled, all pretense at stealth evaporating completely. “Get to your feet, girl! You can’t shoot that thing any—”

The bow twanged a second time, and this time Ralof saw the arrow fly straight into the bear’s eye – the best, most ideal target, something only the best hunters could manage.

The bear roared one last time, before falling to the ground, not moving.

Gratiana exhaled, and slowly got to her feet, muttering something about “draw weight” and “miss mine already,” before stalking over to the bear, and pulling both arrows out. She eyed the arrowheads critically, before tossing one away and wiping the other on the bear’s pelt to put back in her quiver. Only then did she look at Ralof, and she blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.” That wasn’t entirely true, though. Ralof did not wish to admit this, but he was deeply impressed. Only a small handful of people could shoot like Gratiana, and almost all of them were wanderers, people who refused to be tied down by anything. As for his friend Angi, well…there were reasons for her being wherever she was, and even if Ralof was able to find her, he doubted he could convince her to join his cause.

But Gratiana… Maybe there was something there? She wanted to disappear, she said, and there were many ways of doing that, but joining the ranks of the Stormcloaks was just as good a method as any. There was the matter of her name, of course, but names were changed all the time.

“Well,” Ralof muttered as he slowly got to his feet. “That’s not good.”

“Why?” Gratiana asked as she, too, got to her feet. “Is that temple still occupied?”

“That’s Bleak Falls Barrow, and as far as I know, nothing lives there that can be considered ‘alive.’ But it overlooks Riverwood, and if that’s where the dragon is living, it could attack the village at any time.” His thoughts shifted to his sister, Gerdur, and concern for his sister became foremost in his thoughts. He glanced at Gratiana, and said, “Listen, we’re not too far from Riverwood. My sister, Gerdur, lives there with her husband and little boy. You can come with me at least that far; Gerdur would happily help you any way she can.”

Gratiana raised one eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?” she asked.

Ralof snorted. “You’ve saved my life not once, but twice now. I owe you my life, and so does my sister. She’ll give whatever aid she can without question, after all you’ve done.”

Gratiana eyed him for a moment, but in the end, nodded. “I hope she doesn’t mind an extra guest.”

“Oh, she won’t. Gerdur loves visitors.”

“Even Imperial ex-convicts?”

“She’ll keep the fact that you saved my life foremost in her thoughts, and that will be enough to overlook any failings of birth or current life status.”

Gratiana uttered a low, pleasant-sounding chuckle. “All right, to your sister’s it is, then.” She flashed a crooked, albeit warm, smile at him as they proceeded down the path. “Though if we’re to be fair here, _you_ were the one who saved me.”

“I should think we’re even, since I couldn’t have made it out there without your help.” He grinned back. “If it will help your conscience, I can keep a running tab.”

This time she laughed – a genuine laugh – and Ralof chuckled. Regardless of the circumstances that had brought them together, and her Imperial descent, Gratiana Varinius was not a bad sort at all.

As the sound of the White River thundered to them from the gorge below, Ralof glanced at Gratiana, and asked: “Have you considered joining the Stormcloaks?”


	3. Matters of Survival

_“Mother?”_

_Hilaria Varinius paused in her writing and looked towards the doorway, obviously startled, but then relaxed when she saw who it was. “Yes, Gratiana? Is something the matter?”_

_Gratiana shook her head as she stepped into her mother’s study, worried by the dark circles under the older woman’s eyes. “What are you doing still up? It’s dreadfully late; you should be in bed.”_

_Her mother snorted, though there was a smile on her lips as she looked away and continued writing. “I know you think I’m a frail old woman, dearest, and while there are times when I feel tempted to agree with you, this is not one of those times.”_

_“Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”_

_“It could, but I’m far too excited by my findings, and if I don’t write it down now, I’ll only toss and turn in bed and not get a wink of sleep.”_

_“Oh?” Gratiana knew her mother only got excited when she had an interesting find on her hands, so she moved to stand behind Hilaria’s chair, looking down at the letter she was writing. “What’s this about?”_

_Hilaria glanced up at her daughter, and her smile was so bright that she looked like a much younger woman than she really was. “Wuuthrad, the legendary weapon of Ysgramor himself.”_

_“Wait—What? So you mean to tell me that special project you – we – have been working on—”_

_“Has to do with the location of it, yes. Or a fragment of it, to be precise.” Hilaria’s smile turned into an outright, excited grin. “Thrilling, isn’t it?”_

_“To say the least!” Gratiana glanced at the notebooks and stacks of paper sitting on her mother’s desk, her mind racing. Wuuthrad was an artifact of incredible interest and value: the weapon wielded by Ysgramor himself, when he first arrived from Atmora, the weapon he had used to carve a territory for himself and his people out of the cold, grim landscape of Skyrim. “Are we to find it, then?”_

_Hilaria shook her head. “No, it’s not for us to find, I’m afraid. If the true owners of Wuuthrad ask for our services, we will make the journey, but it’s not our decision to make.”_

_“True owners?”_

_“The Companions, in Whiterun Hold. They have some of the fragments already in their keeping, but they are always looking for more.”_

_Hilaria finished the letter, signing it with her initials (as had been her practice for as long as Gratiana could remember), and set it aside, leaving the ink to dry until tomorrow. She turned in her chair, and smiled up at her daughter. “I’ll send it off tomorrow. Now then, help an old woman to her bed, would you?”_

_Gratiana laughed (for Hilaria was still strong, despite her age), but indulged her mother anyway, helping her up from her chair and up the stairs to the bedchamber they shared._

When Gratiana woke, it was an immediate transition from sleep to wakefulness – none of the slow haziness that usually accompanied the shift from dreams to reality. For a moment she thought she was at home, in her own bed, and opened her mouth to call her mother’s name, but before she could do so, memory reasserted itself.

This was not home. Home had burned weeks ago – and her mother was dead.

“Slept well?”

Gratiana managed a smile at the speaker. “Yes, thank you for asking. Frodnar, wasn’t it?”

The little boy nodded, giving her a gap-toothed grin. “Uncle Ralof’s out at the mill with Mama and Papa. Mama said to go when you had breakfast.”

And that was where Gratiana found them, with Ralof seated on a wide stump off to the side of the mill. Gerdur stood in front of him, her arms crossed and her face concerned. From the whining of the sawblade, Hod was working the mill.

“—not a good idea right now, Ralof.”

“Maybe not now, but I know she’d be welcome amongst the ranks of the Stormcloaks. She’s Bruma-born, so there’s at least some Nord in her. That’s good enough.”

Gerdur made an impatient noise. “She doesn’t look it, Ralof, and she certainly doesn’t sound like it - not much, anyway. If you take her straight to Windhelm with you all they’ll see is an Imperial.” She shook her head. “She needs time to get her life in order. Then she’ll go to Windhelm and join, or not, as she sees fit.”

Gratiana did not comment on what she’d just heard, but made sure her footsteps rustled in the grass to announce her arrival. Both Gerdur and Ralof stopped talking to look at her, though Gerdur was quicker to smile than her brother.

“A fine morning to you, Gratiana,” Gerdur greeted, smiling kindly. Gratiana thought her a handsome-looking woman, with the strong features and blonde hair that marked her and Ralof out as siblings, but with a feminine lip and jaw and curve to her eyebrow. But what Gratiana really liked about her was the look in her eye: Gerdur of Riverwood was no fool, and kept her mill and her family in working order – and all despite Hod’s roving eye.

“A fine morning it is, Gerdur, Ralof,” Gratiana replied with a nod, stretching discreetly as the sun’s warmth filtered through the clothes Gerdur had lent her the night before. “Certainly finer than the one I had yesterday.”

Ralof chuckled, as did Gerdur, but Gerdur was quick to turn serious, and asked: “Have you given thought to the favor I’ve asked of you?”

“I have, and I’ll do it.” After relating the entire tale of their ordeal at Helgen, Gerdur asked Gratiana to go to Whiterun to inform the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, about the dragon – which, disconcertingly enough, had not been seen by anyone since it flew over Ralof and Gratiana’s heads as they escaped from Helgen. Ralof, for his part, would head straight to Windhelm and inform his superiors of what had happened.

Although Gerdur had made it sound like she was asking for a favor, Gratiana knew that this was probably the only course of action currently available to her. As soon as she got to Whiterun, she’d be able to make her own way, hopefully with some sort of consideration from the Jarl for delivering such important news.

That suited Gratiana just fine – as long as she could work up some coin to see her from Riverwood to Whiterun, and a little extra for room and board and other sundry, necessary things.

Gerdur’s face relaxed in relief, and for a brief moment she was not so much handsome as actually beautiful. “Excellent. I could offer you some work here at the mill, so you can earn some coin to see you on your way, or…”

She exchanged a brief glance with Ralof, who continued: “You could speak to Lucan Valerius, at the Riverwood Trader. Something of his has been stolen, a golden claw of some sort, and he’s offering a reward to anyone who can bring it back.”

Ah. Given the look on Ralof’s face, Gratiana had a good idea where she might be headed on this particular retrieval mission. “This will send me towards Bleak Falls Barrow, won’t it?”

“A group of bandits have set up camp in the ruins,” Gerdur explained, “and they broke into Lucan’s shop and stole an ornamental claw he owns. If you can get Lucan’s claw back, and clear the bandits out, too, everyone can sleep a little better at night.”

_“I don’t see why we should be doing this, Mother,” Gratiana grumbled as she stabbed a draugr where it lay, ensuring that it was well and truly dead._

_“Doing what?” Hilaria asked as she started checking through coffins and burial urns, looking for any piece of treasure that could have been tucked away._

_Gratiana waved, annoyed, at the crypt around them: a nondescript thing, really, with no new lore or truly great treasure housed within it. “This. Acting like errand girls for every tom-fool who squeals like a stuck pig at the slightest rustle in a tomb.”_

_“Not everyone can be as brave as us, dearest. And when it gets too irritating, remember this: small favors done now lead to greater rewards in the future.” A pause as Hilaria opened a burial urn, squinted, and then grinned as she reached in, and pulled out a glittering golden necklace decorated with multicolored jewels, easily worth a couple hundred septims._

_“And sometimes,” she continued as she took Gratiana’s hand, and dropped the necklace into her daughter’s opened palm, “the task can bring rewards of a more immediate nature.”_

“All right,” Gratiana said at last, “I’ll do it.”

* * *

After she had spoken to Lucan to make it known she was going to retrieve his stolen artifact, it was just like old times: the way she ran through her mental checklists to make sure she was well and truly prepared; the way she packed her things, just so, to make movement easy; the way she sharpened her arrowheads and checked the fletching, to make sure they would fly true and bite sharp. If she tried hard enough, she could almost hear her mother's voice singing a lighthearted ditty as she, too, packed her things - Hilaria always went about mundane tasks with a little bit of song to accompany her.

It took Gratiana a lot of effort not to just fold over her pack and weep all over again for all that she had lost.

She was ready to go by late afternoon. Camilla Valerius, Lucan's sister, had led her as far as the bridge (as per her brother's insistence, the poor thing), and pointed out the faint dirt trail that led up the side of the mountain towards the ancient temple. After some remarks on the insanity of the bandits for wanting to hide up there, Camilla bid her adieu, and went back to the village, while Gratiana began the trek up the mountainside - the first trip she would be taking without her mother.

It was full dark by the time she reached the temple - a trip that had been remarkably quiet, for the most part, except for the occasional wolf and the two bandits who had obviously been guarding the path up to the temple. She had dealt with those handily enough: the wolves she slaughtered with her sword, while the bandits she'd sniped from behind a convenient rock formation. Years of sniping at draugr in echoing tombs had given her a good sense of how to hide herself.

The temple took her breath away. It was enormous, magnificent - far more so up close than when seen from far away, and so very, very different from the half-buried, dome-roofed barrows she and her mother were more accustomed to investigating. Great arches rose to pierce the star-strewn sky, like the ribs of an upturned ship. Beneath the arches was a series of terraces, with short staircases leading up to the next level, concluding in a portico in front of a pair of massive doors set in a half-moon arch. There were guards, of course: whoever was leading the bandits was smart enough to have posted the two on the road up here, and was obviously smart enough to post more out here, as well.

This time, it was not so easy. Before she could so much as make a move against the bandits the moons rose, illuminating the entire area with a light as bright as sunlight. She'd tried to shoot-and-hide, as she had earlier that day, but it was useless - particularly since she was fighting more than two bandits. It was a close-fought thing, but in the end it was Gratiana left standing - slumped against a portico pillar while trying to stanch a wound in her side with magic, but standing nonetheless.

Gratiana marked the passing of time by watching the slow shifting of the shadows, getting back to her feet only after the pain had become a bearable burden - perhaps a half-hour after she'd killed the last bandit. After doing some judicious looting ("Waste not, want not" was a lesson her mother had drilled into her from a very young age), she pushed the door of the temple open just enough for her to slip inside, and ducked into the shadows beyond.

There were more bandits, and skeevers too (how the bandits could live side-by-side with the filthy things, she could not imagine), but this time Gratiana had the advantage: she was far more used to fighting inside a building than outside one, and she was able to use the ruined architecture for cover. She killed two bandits at their camp, and another one in the hallway. Yet another did her the favor of killing himself by triggering a trap that was meant to protect what lay deeper in the temple.

Dart trap, Gratiana thought as she stepped into the room where the bandit had just died. She stepped lightly and kept her eyes open for any other triggers, but when it became clear that the bandit had so considerately shown her the only trap in the room, she relaxed a fraction, and began looking for the solution to the puzzle.

She had read of these tomb puzzles: so much of the lore about Nord burials had them as a key feature. However, they were only part of the larger tombs; the ones she and her mother used to go into were smaller, single-chamber affairs, and so they'd never had to solve one before.

"All right then," Gratiana murmured to herself, looking around the chamber. As long as there were no draugr around she found that thinking aloud to herself helped her to make sense of a dilemma. "Pulling the lever gets you killed, which means that it's either a dummy lever, and the real lever is elsewhere, or there's a mechanism somewhere that will lock the trap and unlock the gate when I pull the lever."

It took some time, but she eventually figured it out: a set of stone statues with emblems on them acted like keys, and revealing the correct combination of emblems would lock the trap and allow one to pull the lever safely. The solution was even on the wall above the gate - or rather, part of it was, since the set had collapsed at some point in the past and so some of the carvings were on the floor. Fortunately, they were all intact, and Gratiana did not have to piece the carving together to get the answer she needed. She spun the statues so that the correct emblem was facing the correct way according to the solution, then she walked to the lever, inhaled, and pulled.

There was a muffled click, as of something shifting beneath the stone, and the grate barring her way to the rest of the tomb pulled down into the floor with the sound of swords sheathing. Gratiana exhaled the breath she didn't know she'd been holding, and got back into a crouch, pulled out her bow, and proceeded the rest of the way.

When she saw the webs, she groaned inwardly, knowing what lay ahead. She'd fought frostbite spiders only twice: once in a tomb with her mother, and then again in her escape from Helgen with Ralof. They were difficult opponents, with finely-tuned senses that made hiding from them difficult. She'd also heard from traders going in and out of Skyrim through Bruma that some of them could grow very large, with one merchant telling her and her mother of one that was as big as a cottage. Gratiana and her mother had often discussed what they would do if they encountered such a beast, and just as often both of them dismissed the idea of such a creature existing at all. How could anything that was not a mammoth or a giant grow as big as a cottage?

But then again, neither of them had ever once imagined that dragons would return to the world, and had that not just come to pass?

"Can anybody hear me? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling? Come on, get me out of here!"

Gratiana stilled, listening as the voice continued calling for help. She'd overheard some of the bandits talking about a Dunmer named Arvel the Swift, supposedly their leader, who had run off into the depths of the tomb with Lucan Valerius's golden claw. Since she had no choice but to deal with him if she wanted the claw back, she moved towards the chamber from which his voice was emanating, expecting to find him injured or locked up in some sort of trap.

What she did not expect was the enormous spider that descended from the ceiling. And indeed, it _was_ as big as a cottage.

With a curse she leaped back, just managing to avoid its attention. It skirted the room, uttering a soft, chittering sound as it attempted to locate her. When it did, it charged, fangs out and dripping venom, only to be stopped by the fact that it was far too big to get into the hallway that Gratiana was in.

Mentally thanking the Divines that the spider was actually too big to reach her, Gratiana proceeded to kill it gradually, darting in and out of the hallway and striking at it with her sword, whittling away its life force until, with a strange, high-pitched shriek, it collapsed in a hairy, many-legged sprawl.

Gratiana approached it cautiously, watching out for any twitches that might indicate it was still alive, but when she realized its stillness was that of true death, she sheathed her sword, and followed the sound of the shouting to its source.

Arvel was suspended from thick webbing against one wall. It was clear to Gratiana that he'd tried to go through this chamber without heeding the signs indicating the nature of its resident, and had gotten caught for his efforts. She sniffed delicately at his foolhardiness: one of the first things Gratiana learned from her mother when it came to tomb-diving was that caution ensured survival, and a lack of caution got one killed.

Arvel spotted her then, and the look of relief on his face was almost comical. "Oh thank the Divines! You killed it, you really killed it!" He wriggled in his restraints. "Now, cut me down from here."

Gratiana tilted her head. "And the golden claw?"

There was a flash of emotion in Arvel's eye - suspicion, panic, or some combination of the two, Gratiana wasn't sure - but he mastered himself quickly enough, and grinned. "You want the claw? That means you want the treasure, don't you? Well, listen, how about you get me down here and I share it with you? I know everything about how this works - the claw, the Hall of Stories, the doors, everything! Just get me down from here, and I'll show you everything."

Gratiana shook her head. "I don't particularly care for the treasure; I just want the claw back."

"Then you can have it back when I'm done with it; I'll put it in your hands myself."

No, you won't, Gratiana thought, the idea coming to her mind full-formed and backed by all the conviction she had, but she couldn't see any other way to negotiate with the thief. Knowing there was only one way to find out, she unsheathed her dagger, and cut through the webs to release him.

And, just like she expected, he ran as soon as he was free, going through the doorway behind him and heading deeper into the tomb.

Gratiana sighed, sheathed her dagger, and took out her bow, dropping into a crouch. With one last look behind her to check that the spider hadn't gotten up again in the interim, she ducked into the hallway behind the webs, and followed Arvel deeper into the tomb.


	4. Words of Power

Gratiana found Arvel's body sprawled in a bloody heap just around the corner from the hallway leading into the spider chamber. From the look of it - and from the smell just ahead - she knew that draugr had killed him. She found the claw easily enough, tucked away in a pouch against the small of his back, alongside a small, leather-bound journal. After a quick look around to make sure there were no draugr nearby, she took the two items (along with Arvel's cache of potions and spell scrolls), and retreated further back down the hallway, almost to the spider chamber. Once there, she sat down, took out the journal, and started reading it.

For the most part, it was filled with the ramblings of an overambitious bandit, and she skipped most of it until she got closer to the end, where Arvel revealed his reasons for stealing the claw, and his speculation on what lay ahead. Contrary to what he'd told her, he wasn't looking for treasure in the traditional sense. He was looking for something else: a magical power that the ancient Nords somehow knew about and then stored deep in the heart of the tomb.

Gratiana was not unfamiliar with such stories, and indeed it had been something of a dream of her and her mother's to go into Skyrim and track down these "fonts of power" for themselves - not for the sake of acquiring the power, of course, but for the sake of research. The gold and artifacts they found were a major source of their income, but it was always the information, the knowledge, that kept them going.

She picked up the claw, turning it over in her hand. Arvel's journal had mentioned that it was a key of some kind, one that would unlock the inner sanctum of this tomb, where the power he wanted lay. He'd written in the journal that he had to find the Hall of Stories, at the end of which would be a door that the claw would unlock.

Gratiana looked up, staring at the wall across from her, considering her options. She could easily go back, right then, to Lucan and give the claw back. Between the reward he'd promised her, the money she'd managed to collect from the bandits, and the coin and jewelry she'd picked up from around the tomb, she had sufficient funds to at least get her through a week or two while she looked for a steadier source of income.

Or she could go deeper into the tomb and get to the bottom of this whole mystery.

It was hardly even a choice.

"Sorry Lucan," she muttered, stuffing the journal and the claw into her pack, "but you will just have to wait a little longer to get your claw back."

* * *

Were draugr more difficult to kill within the bounds of Skyrim itself, or was it just the nature of this tomb and its hidden power?

This was the question that occupied Gratiana's mind as she moved deeper through Bleak Falls Barrow, creeping her way through the crypts and killing any draugr that got in her way. For some reason she could not currently understand, it took longer to drop them in comparison to the ones she had fought in the tombs and barrows around Bruma. Fortunately, they could be killed; they just took longer to get that state - and Gratiana was capable of mustering up great stores of patience if need be.

And so it was a slow, careful crawl through the crypts, which consisted mostly of narrow hallways, the corners and alcoves providing excellent places to hide while she sniped at draugr, or used spilled oil from shattered lamps to her advantage by launching a fireball (the only Destruction spell she'd ever managed to learn enough to use effectively) at the pool and setting everything that happened to be standing in it ablaze.

There were also the traps to deal with. The lore had always stated that the larger Nord tombs were heavily booby-trapped, but she was not prepared for the nature of those traps. The dart trap guarding the gate was at least something she could solve: the swinging blade traps were another story entirely, and she'd wound up getting cut up along her shoulders whenever she got the timing wrong. This, too, ate at her time, because she had to close the wounds up before traveling further, lest the draugr smell the blood and come after her.

At length, though, the draugr seemed to drop in number, until at last she reached a long, empty hallway. On the walls were carved scenes of battles, of feasts, of lives lived and ended, feted and cursed. Gratiana's mouth fell open as she realized where she was.

"The Hall of Stories," she murmured, returning her bow to its sling on her back, and straightening so that she could get a better look at the carvings. The hall was aptly named: the carvings told the story of a mighty warrior who rose to power to become king in his own right, ruling a wide swathe of territory that corresponded roughly to the entirety of Whiterun Hold. It also gave her an idea as to the nature of the power said king held: some kind of magic said to have come from the dragons themselves.

_Dovahkiin..._

Gratiana shook the whisper from her mind, and proceeded down the hallway, tracing the tale of the king's life as told through the carvings, until she got to the very end of the hall, where a large, circular door barred her progress to the rest of the tomb. The carvings had made it clear that beyond the door lay the king's sarcophagus - and the mysterious power that Arvel so desperately wanted, above the gold and jewels that were surely buried with the king when he died. There were three symbols carved on the door, and in the middle was an indentation that looked like it would fit the golden claw.

Taking it out, Gratiana fitted it into the indentation at the center of the door, and the golden talons slid in perfectly - just like the key Arvel said it was. With a deep breath, she twisted the claw.

Nothing happened.

She frowned. She had obviously missed something important here. She peered more closely at the symbols, lightly touching the one closest to the center of the door, and, on a whim, pushed it off to one side.

With a quiet grinding of stone on stone, the circle _moved_ , spinning to show another symbol.

"Just like a safe," Gratiana realized. As she looked at the symbols, lined up from top to bottom, she remembered a strange line from Arvel's journal: "the solution is in the palm of your hand…"

Mind racing too fast for her to form actual thoughts, Gratiana took the claw out again, and flipped it over to look at the palm. There, cast into the gold with exquisite detail, were three symbols that, in design, looked exactly like the ones on the door: a bear, a moth, and an owl, in that order from top to bottom.

With a quiet laugh, she focused on the door, and spun the sigils around so that they matched the ones on the claw. That accomplished, she latched the claw back into the center of the door, and twisted it again.

This time, there was a more pronounced reaction: the sigil circles spun around until they all displayed the moth symbol, and then slowly, slowly, the door began to descend. Gratiana managed to yank the golden claw out just in time, and stepped back as the obstruction descended and disappeared into the floor.

A blast of cool air touched her face, smelling of water and snowmelt. She could hear birds quietly chirring away in their roosts overhead, which meant that this chamber was open to the outside. She ought to have been relieved, but she was not.

She could hear chanting. She didn't know where it was coming from, precisely, except from somewhere up ahead, but she could see no people at all. Perhaps it was the power hidden here, she thought, calling out to her - or to something else. She could only hope that, if it was not calling to her, then whatever it was calling out to, it wouldn't kill her.

Ignoring the chanting, she crept forward, following the soft glow of moonlight and the sound of falling water. At length she reached the center of the room, and this time, she had to truly stop and stare at the wonder before her.

In front of her, on an island surrounded by a stream, was a semi-circular wall with writing on it. She had seen the script only a handful of times, but she knew what it was: dragon script, physical manifestation of the language of dragons - the very basis of written Tamrielic, as developed by the ancient Nords. Neither she nor her mother had ever learned how to read it, because the true scholars of the language were in Skyrim and were never inclined to leave it, or were in the Imperial City and so just as inaccessible.

Drawing closer, she tried to take in the entire wall, attempting to memorize the text so that she could copy it down later and have someone translate it. Whiterun was a major city, wasn't it? Capital of the hold, she remembered Gerdur saying. If that was so, then surely there would be a scholar of some sort who could translate the text for her, or at least point her in the direction of someone who could.

It was only then that she noticed that one of the words was glowing. Curious, she approached, and then watched as the world spun, and grew dim, so that there was only the word, and the chanting, and nothing else. The center of her chest grew warm, and then hot, so hot that it was almost unbearable. Strands of golden light emerged from the word, joining with the heat in her chest and making it into an inferno. For a brief moment she thought she would die, burning up in what she now realized was ancient, powerful magic, but just before it could kill her, the light faded, and the world spun back into focus. The chanting, too, had disappeared. She was left with a single, powerful voice in her mind, one that almost sounded like her own, saying just one word: _Fus_.

A sharp cracking sound brought her back to reality. She turned to look behind her, and watched as the king - or, at least, his corpse - emerged from the sarcophagus and raised his weapon at her with a snarl.

With a sigh and a quiet curse on all draugr, she drew her sword, and began the long and painful process of putting this one back in his grave - for good.

* * *

"She's probably dead, brother."

Ralof grunted in response to Gerdur's remark. He didn't believe it, of course, not a word of it. There was simply no way Gratiana was going to allow herself to get killed by draugr, not when she'd survived being attacked by a dragon. How ridiculous, he thought, that corpses, of all things, should kill her when not even a dragon could.

He didn't look at his sister as she sat down beside him, too focused on watching the bridge that spanned the White River. Gratiana would have to cross it on her way back to Riverwood from Bleak Falls Barrow, he knew, and it would only be a matter of time until he saw her cross it.

She couldn't be dead. She _couldn't_.

Gerdur sighed. "It's been a day and a night. Do you understand that? A day and a night."

"Maybe the barrow is big."

"Maybe she's gotten lost in it."

Ralof made an irritated sound. "She dives into those tombs for a living. She can't have gotten lost."

"There's nothing near as big as Bleak Falls in Bruma." Gerdur shook her head, and put a hand on her brother's shoulder. "She's not coming back."

Ralof closed his eyes, as if doing so would block out Gerdur's words, and the fact that, in some small way, he believed in them. For all that he was convinced in Gratiana's skill, and willed himself to believe that she was all right, it was also entirely possible that she was dead. Gerdur was right: there was nothing like Bleak Falls Barrow in Bruma. Whatever Gratiana's experience in the tombs around her hometown, it might not be enough to see her through the much larger and certainly much more elaborate tomb overlooking Riverwood.

Perhaps Gerdur was right. Perhaps Gratiana was already dead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ralof noticed movement on the bridge. Lost in his thoughts, he ignored it, standing up to follow his sister back to her home. It was probably pointless waiting for Gratiana to come back; it might be better for him if he went on to Windhelm and reported in, lest Ulfric think he'd gone derelict on his duty, and-

"Gratiana!"

Ralof jerked his head up, and he felt his mouth split in a wide, wide grin when he saw the ragged figure coming down the road that ran through Riverwood, limping a little but otherwise whole, steel-gray eyes showing, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that their owner was alive and well.

Gratiana grinned at them - a tired, slightly crooked grin, but a grin nonetheless. And a dead woman couldn't grin now, could she?

"Ho, Ralof, Gerdur," she greeted as she approached them. "I apologize if it took me a while. The barrow turned out to be larger than I expected, and I couldn't resist taking a look around."

At that, Ralof burst out laughing, and moved to grab Gratiana into a hug. "I knew you couldn't be dead. I _knew_ it." He turned to Gerdur, and mock-glared at her. "What did I tell you, sister? I told you she couldn't have been dead."

Gratiana shook her head, and waved a hand dismissively. "It's a plausible notion, Ralof. I can't blame Gerdur for thinking I'd been killed." She tilted her head slightly, and it was only then that Ralof saw the glazed, slightly unfocused look in Gratiana's gray eyes - something Ralof recognized as the sign of someone running a high fever. "Now if you don't mind, do you know an apothecary? Because there were skeevers in that barrow, and I'm quite sure I caught something from them."

At those words Gerdur went into action, directing Ralof to take Gratiana back to her house, while she went to find Camilla Valerius, who was the closest thing that passed for an apothecary in Riverwood.

"So you found it after all," he said, much later, when Gratiana was lying in a bed and had drunk down the potion Camilla had brought back - but not before handing the other woman her brother's precious ornament.

Gratiana grinned. "I did."

"Valerius owes you more than a few favors, I think."

"Perhaps. But to be honest, I took much longer than needed to pick that up." When Ralof looked at her inquiringly, Gratiana added, "I found it early enough, but, well… The thief who took it, Arvel, said there was something deep in the barrow that only the claw could unlock."

"And you got curious." Ralof shook his head at that, though he smiled in amusement. "Did you find anything down there, though? There's a lot of stories about that barrow, about how there's an ancient power buried in it somewhere."

"No." Gratiana's voice had gone flat, and it made Ralof's eyebrow go up. The last time he had heard her use such a tone, she had been trying to avoid explaining why she had come to Skyrim in the first place. Had she found something in that barrow she didn't want to tell him about?

But then she sighed, and shook her head. "Actually, that's not quite true. I found a draugr, in the heart of the barrow. It had this on it." She reached into her pack again, and this time, pulled out a slab of dark stone, carved on one side with a map of Skyrim, and on the other with writing he couldn't decipher.

"This looks like quite the find," Ralof remarked, handing it back to her. "Do you know what it means?"

Gratiana shook her head. "Not at all. I can't read the writing, since there were no scholars who knew anything about it in Bruma, and since the writing probably explains the map, I can't interpret that, either."

"Aren't there supposed to be scholars in Cyrodiil who can do that for you? Surely the Imperial City has more than a few."

"I'm sure there are, but neither Mother nor I so much as considered going there and asking for help."

"Why?"

When Gratiana did not answer, Ralof sighed, and said: "Might be best to take it to the College of Winterhold. If there's anyone who could interpret that for you, it'd be the mages there."

"Or I could just sell it to someone who'll take it." Gratiana turned the stone over, looking at it with an assessing eye before putting it back into her pack. "It looks rare enough to fetch a good amount of coin. I'll take a rubbing of the carvings, though, to keep for myself."

With that their conversation went to more practical concerns: how much money Gratiana had on her; what supplies she'd take on her journey to Whiterun; what kind of armor and weapons she'd need to be on her way. As the conversation naturally drew to a close, Ralof patted Gratiana on the knee, and headed off to seek his own bed.

When he woke the next morning, Gratiana was gone.


	5. Jarls and Dragons

The journey to the city of Whiterun turned out to be much shorter than Gratiana expected. She'd woken early, and snuck out of Gerdur's house while its residents were still asleep. Fortunately Alvor, Riverwood's blacksmith, was also an early riser, and she'd been able to buy new weapons and a new set of leather armor after selling off the old ones she'd looted in Helgen. Thus outfitted, she crossed the bridge once more, but this time turned right instead of left. By mid-morning, she was walking along the road that ran parallel to Whiterun's walls, the scent of honey from the local meadery mingling with the perfume of summer's last flowers.   
  
It was obvious that the Jarl of Whiterun took the security of his hold quite seriously: the road was patrolled by guards, all of whom were armed and bore a shield painted green with a white horse emblem symbolizing the city emblazoned on it. They were cordial enough, nodding at Gratiana or murmuring a word of greeting as she passed, which she returned in kind.

The Imperial soldiers, however, were another story entirely. For a while Gratiana was worried that they would recognize her, but they tended to ignore her, or else ordered her to get out of their way as they hurried on past to greater, more important things. Eventually she relaxed, realizing that they didn't recognize her as an escapee from Helgen.

"Watch out, there!"

Gratiana ducked just as an arrow whizzed past her head, only to stumble when the ground trembled beneath her. She hit the ground, and looked up - only to see a massive hammer coming down towards her head.

She swore loudly and rolled out of the way, avoiding getting struck by the hammer by a narrow distance. She got to her feet, and found out just what was threatening her: a giant - extremely rare in Bruma, but less so in Skyrim. There were three people - armed, but not in the uniform of either the Whiterun guards or Imperial soldiers, she noted - circling the giant, cutting at it with an assortment of weapons while trying to avoid getting stepped on or crushed by the hammer. Another circled from a greater distance, shooting at the giant with bow and arrow.

But Gratiana could tell that their efforts weren't quite enough. While their strategy was extremely sound, it would need at least one more fighter, or one more archer, to take the giant down fast enough so that it didn't do any further damage to the nearby farms and homesteads, to say nothing about killing one of the fighters themselves.

Unslinging her bow, Gratiana nocked an arrow, and aimed carefully, taking her time to ensure that she had her target. With a soft sigh of released breath, she let go of the arrow, the bow twanging as it found its mark: the side of the giant's head.

She glanced at the other archer: a Nord woman with auburn hair and three stripes of warpaint cutting across her face, giving her a savage, dangerous appearance. But her eyes showed her to be no mere savage, and her nod as she, too, nocked another arrow, spoke volumes.

The two of them worked together, moving in a wide circle around the giant, while the Nord woman's comrades continued hacking away at it. It was slow work, and dangerous too, but in the end the giant uttered one last roar and dropped to the ground with a massive impact, rattling Gratiana's teeth.

"It's not often I meet another archer who's almost as good as I am," remarked the Nord woman as she approached Gratiana. "Very brave of you to step in."

Gratiana managed a small smile as she put her bow away. "It was trying to kill me, too. Joining you in your fight was as imperative to my survival as it was to yours."

The Nord woman huffed a small laugh, and added, "The Companions could use someone like you amongst our ranks. If you feel so inclined, come up to Jorrvaskr, and we'll see if you're worthy of joining us."

Gratiana blinked. The Companions? These people were the Companions? She remembered her mother telling her about them, but she hadn't quite expected these folk. And had one of them really just invited her to come and join them?

However, it appeared the answers to her questions would have to come later, because the woman and her comrades were already moving down the road up to Whiterun, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Only one - a tall, burly Nord, with dark hair and warpaint around bright golden eyes - looked at her as he passed, offering her a smile as he did so.

Gratiana didn't follow them, though their destination was the same. She was forced to stay behind at the farm the giant had just attacked, since the farm's owner, Severio Pelagia, and his workers Nimriel and Gloth, had mistaken her for one of the Companions and insisted on offering her various sundry foodstuffs. Some she ate (partly because she was actually hungry, though mostly because they'd forced it on her), and the rest she was asked to take up to Jorrvaskr to share with the others.

It was already mid-afternoon by the time they allowed her to leave, and Gratiana - stuffed with more food than she'd ever had in a long time - trudged up the road to the gate of the city, all concern about getting caught by the Imperials forgotten in the slow haze that always fell on her after she'd had a very large meal. Movement, however, cleared her head as she approached the gate, where she was stopped by one of the guards.

"What's your business in the city?" asked the guard, her blue eyes suspicious behind the eye-slits that were a part of the helmet she was wearing.

Gratiana drew herself up straighter, hoping to mask the thread of nervousness that crept up and down her spine. "I've come with news about Helgen for the Jarl. Gerdur of Riverwood sent me."

Neither guard made any outward show of surprise, though Gratiana didn't miss the very slight stiffening of their shoulders when she mentioned Helgen. Had word not reached them yet about what had happened there? Or had they heard nothing but rumors, and so were being cautious?

Apparently it was the latter, because the guard unlocked the gate, and said she ought to go straight to the Jarl. "Go straight to Dragonsreach," she said, voice low. "The Jarl will appreciate some answers."

Gratiana said she would, and walked through the gate and into Whiterun itself.

* * *

"We cannot afford to be lax on this matter, My Lord. If it is true, and there are dragons about--"

"Irileth, be reasonable! My Lord, if we were to send anyone, even a small troop, to Helgen to take a look, it's highly likely that Jarl Siddgeir will take offense, and _that_ is something we cannot do, whatever the circumstances. We cannot take any sort of action until we have heard something more concrete."

"But we cannot take _any_ kind of action unless we actually do something! My Lord, allow me to go out and investigate. If it is as Avenicci says, and we cannot take action until we have something more 'concrete,' then let me find the proof necessary to do something about this problem before it gets too large for us to manage. Surely not even Siddgeir will think it suspicious if I go alone."

Balgruuf the Greater, Jarl of Whiterun, resisted the urge to groan in frustration as he watched his housecarl Irileth, and his steward Proventus Avenicci, argue once again on the proper course of action he ought to take regarding the rumors of dragons and the destruction of Helgen. As it stood, the best he could do was glare disapprovingly at the two of them, sharing an occasional commiserating glance with his brother, Hrongar.

Or perhaps not entirely commiserating. Balgruuf was well aware that his brother was firmly on Irileth's side in this matter - and, truth be told, so was he. He was a man of action, believing that if one wanted answers, one had to go out and find them. However, he was no mere man, but a Jarl with people to protect, and in this regard Proventus was correct. He had to exercise caution.

Even if caution made him want to strangle someone.

He had been so caught up in watching the argument that he didn't notice a stranger enter the doors and approach his throne. Irileth, however, did, and rounded on the stranger, demanding to know who she was and why she was interrupting the Jarl's business.

Balgruuf almost snorted at that. Jarl's business, indeed.

He watched as the stranger approached: an Imperial, going by the look of her, with eyes as gray as fine steel. Likely a mercenary, judging from her armor, and an archer, going by the bow slung on her back. He rather liked the look of her, truth be told: she had that capable, no-nonsense bearing of some of the soldiers he'd served with, during the Great War.

"I've come with news of Helgen," she said, looking first at Irileth, and then at Balgruuf himself, her eyes steady, but alert. "And Riverwood calls for aid."

Balgruuf sat up straighter at that. "What news of Helgen?" he asked. "How did you come about it? And what of Riverwood?"

"I was there when the dragon attacked. It's also why Riverwood is calling for aid: it's taken to roosting in the area of Bleak Falls Barrow."

There was a beat of stunned silence, but almost immediately Irileth and Proventus were at it again, arguing about what to do with this piece of news.

"Enough!" Balgruuf boomed, and both his steward and his housecarl fell silent. With that done, he focused on the stranger. "What's your name?"

"Gratiana, My Lord," the woman replied, matching this with a polite bow of her head.

Balgruuf nodded in acknowledgement. "Well then, Gratiana, I am grateful that you have come all this way to deliver this information to us. Now we know what must be done." He glanced at Irileth, who stood at attention. "Irileth, take a detachment of guards and send them to Riverwood. Divines only know how much that village will need it, if the dragon decides to attack. When you're done with that, double the watches at the watchtowers, and make sure they know to send signals if they so much as see a shadow in the sky.

"Proventus, go out into the town and make arrangements for the defense of the city. Also make sure that Dragonsreach is prepared to house and provision the townspeople, and other refugees, if need-be. Ours are the only walls that can truly protect against dragon-fire, and I won't have any of my people losing their lives when they can shelter here."

At that, both Irileth and Proventus excused themselves to see about their orders, leaving him alone with the woman who called herself Gratiana. He managed a small, weary smile at her. "You have my thanks for what you've done. Have you a place to stay in the city?"

"… None as yet, My Lord," came the hesitant reply. "I came here as soon as I was allowed through the gate. I didn't think the news I brought could wait."

"Indeed not." Balgruuf eyed her speculatively. She could be useful to him, this Gratiana. "Do you intend to leave the city anytime soon?"

"No, My Lord."

That was the answer Balgruuf wanted. He glanced at his secretary, who was standing not a few feet away. "Hakon, write a note to Hulda at the Bannered Mare. Tell her that this woman is my guest, and is to be given room and board at my expense, for as long as I deem it necessary."

Gratiana frowned. "My Lord, I have enough coin to--"

"Don't argue with me, girl," Balgruuf said, lifting a hand to stop her. "I'm not done with you yet. There is a reward for you, for doing what you have done, and another task I believe you are well-suited to accomplishing. Come back tomorrow morning, and we shall speak again."

She stood there a moment, a frown furrowing her brow, and Balgruuf half-expected her to refuse what he was offering. Instead, though, she nodded, and said: "As you say, My Lord."

"Good." Taking his word for what it was - a dismissal - Gratiana bowed her head again and murmured a "good evening" before turning around and heading out the door.

As soon as she was gone, Balgruuf got to his feet, ordered the servants to prepare supper, and then headed to the side chamber where Farengar, his court wizard, was busy muttering over his alchemy table.

"Farengar." As soon as the wizard looked up, Balgruuf said: "I think I may have found the perfect person to send on that errand of yours…"


	6. Dragonborn

"Impossible! That's impossible!"  
  
"Not so impossible, it seems, Lady Elenwen."  
  
"Do you think someone in Skyrim is behind this, Rulindil? Ulfric--"  
  
"I doubt that, Rinion. He is trained in the Way of the Voice, but he can't call dragons, much less bring them back to life."  
  
"Either way, it doesn't matter. This dragon problem is upsetting all our plans in Skyrim, and I want to know who is behind it, and what can be done to stop it from getting worse."  
  
"As you say, My Lady."  
  
"Of course, Lady."  
  
"And Rinion?"  
  
"Yes, Lady?" "I want you to go back to Helgen and check the casualties. Make sure the Varinius brat is dead and gone."  
  
"… Of course, Lady."  
  
"Is that hesitation I hear in your voice, Justiciar?"  
  
"If I sound hesitant, Lady, it's because I do not particularly relish going over the bodies of the dead - much less when they've been charred to a crisp. The smell is beyond offensive."  
  
"Ha! And you speak from experience, don't you? Well, either way, this is something that needs to be done, and you are the only one I can send. We've worked hard to wipe out that particular family, or at least bring them under our thumb. Let's make sure the dragon finished the job for us, at least."  
  
"Indeed, Lady. It shall be as you say."

* * *

"Ah, there you are! I was just about to send a messenger to get you."  
  
Gratiana managed a small smile and a bow for Jarl Balgruuf. "I came as soon as I was ready, My Lord."  
  
In truth, she was only barely managing to stand on her feet. Although she'd dropped off almost immediately into sleep the night before, she had been plagued by nightmares of her escape from Bruma. In the nightmare, she could hear horses behind her, the sound of spells as Thalmor agents readied to cast them at her. In reality, she had managed to get into hiding soon enough that she could stop running, but in the nightmare, there was never anyplace to hide, and so she kept on running, running, until she was tired, so tired, but had no choice but to keep on running.  
  
The nightmare had felt so real that, when she woke up, she felt completely exhausted despite the fact that she'd slept through the night.  
  
But she was hardly going to tell that to the Jarl of Whiterun, was she? Of course not. So she merely did her best to hide her weariness, and prayed to the Divines that he did not pick up on anything that might be construed as rude.  
  
Balgruuf rose from his throne, and gestured for her to follow him. "Come, there is someone I want to introduce to you."  
  
Gratiana dutifully followed him to a square chamber off to the side of the main hall, and Gratiana knew, from the scrolls and the alchemy and enchanting tables against a far wall, that she was being introduced to the court wizard - a man named Farengar Secret-Fire, as it turned out.  
  
"Ah, so you're the one who brought the news about Helgen," Farengar said, looking at her up and down as if assessing her and finding her wanting. Though Gratiana chafed at the haughtiness in his voice and actions, she said nothing about it. "Did you really see the dragon?"  
  
"Since it was trying to kill me, I should say that I got a rather good look at it," Gratiana replied, hoping this Farengar was not so stupid that he would miss the sarcasm in her voice.  
  
Farengar merely shrugged, ignoring her tone. "Well, you seem more capable than the other mercenaries My Lord has sent to me, so you will do."  
  
"Do for what?"  
  
"I need something retrieved. It's hidden away in the heart of Bleak Falls Barrow - you may have seen it in Riverwood."  
  
Gratiana blinked. He couldn't possibly be asking after the stone she'd found - could he? "This item you want retrieved… Is it perhaps a flat slab of dark stone, about this wide," she gestured with her hands, "and covered with writing on one side, and a map on the other?"  
  
"Yes!" This time Farengar looked at her, truly looked at her. "How could you possibly know about the Dragonstone?"  
  
Instead of responding verbally, Gratiana unslung her pack, and took out what she now knew was called the Dragonstone, wrapped in a piece of cloth to protect it from scratches and breaking while it was in her pack. As for the rubbing she'd made of the text and the map, that was safely folded away at the very bottom of her pack. She handed it over to Farengar with a wry smile. "I am a tomb diver by trade. When I saw Bleak Falls Barrow, I could hardly pass up the chance to investigate."  
  
Farengar tilted his head in interest as he took the wrapped stone from her. "Are you now? Very few would ever take up such a profession. If you feel so inclined, the College of Winterhold could make use of your skills."  
  
Gratiana nodded, but said nothing. She had heard of the College of Winterhold, of course, and of their especial interest in ancient, magical artifacts - as a matter of fact, she and her mother had used to accept commissions from them on a fairly regular basis, before tensions between Skyrim and Cyrodiil had become so bad that it was nigh-on impossible for messages from the College to reach them.  
  
"Fascinating," Farengar muttered as he put the stone on his table. "This writing is in the dragon tongue, of course--"  
  
 _Dovahkiin…_  
  
"What does it mean?" Gratiana inquired.  
  
Farengar looked up at her, suddenly suspicious. "Why do you ask?"  
  
Gratiana shrugged. "I take a scholarly interest in the tombs I dive into, and I have seen the text a few times, in my research. I have not had the time to truly learn it, however, so I cannot read it."  
  
"Ah. Well." Farengar cleared his throat, and continued: "Most of the text in the dragon language that we have found is commemorative of some event or the death of some important personage, so I expect that this text is the same. See here, the phrase 'het nok'?"  
  
Gratiana came closer, and nodded at the collection of symbols Farengar was pointing to.  
  
"Well, that means 'here lies'. So this stone may have been meant to commemorate a burial of some kind."  
  
"Is that what the map represents?" Gratiana asked. "A map of burial sites?"  
  
Farengar turned the stone over, and squinted at the etched lines of the map on the other side. "It is possible. I would have to translate the rest of the message, however, and that can take a while, as there are some words here I do not recognize, and--"  
  
"Farengar!" Gratiana glanced to the doorway as Irileth, Jarl Balgruuf's housecarl, came to a stop just inside Farengar's lab. The Dunmer's leather armor was covered in a fine layer of dust, particularly around the legs. Had she run to Dragonsreach from wherever it was she'd come from?  
  
"A dragon's been sighted flying over the Western Watchtower. We must speak with the Jarl," Irileth said, her voice surprisingly even, despite the news she delivered. She glanced at Gratiana, and her look became ever-so-slightly sharper, ever-so-slightly more suspicious, but not enough to cause any undue offense. "You might as well come along, too."  
  
Gratiana nodded, understanding why the Jarl would want to talk to her. A dragon was attacking his city, and she was the only one who had survived a dragon attack.  
  
She also suspected she knew what he would ask of her.

* * *

Irileth was unsurprised when Balgruuf had requested Gratiana, the survivor of the Helgen attack, to accompany Irileth to the Western Watchtower, where the dragon had been spotted. She knew Balgruuf would use whatever resources were available to him in order to protect his hold, and since the stranger who had arrived yesterday was still there, Balgruuf felt no compunction about throwing her into possible danger, if it meant saving his people.  
  
What surprised Irileth was that Gratiana had agreed to help. She glanced briefly at the Imperial jogging along beside her, the two of them at the head of a troop of reinforcements making their way to support those already at the Watchtower. She seemed steady enough, her face devoid of expression, her gray eyes cool and composed. Irileth was usually good at reading people, but she discovered she had a hard time reading this one.  
  
Well, she thought, speculating on what Gratiana was like was actually rather pointless, at this stage. Irileth believed that seeing the way another person carried themselves in combat was always a better method of gauging said person's character, and she expected to see Gratiana's true self once they were in the heat of battle.  
  
They reached the Western Watchtower without any incident, thank the Divines, and as soon as they got there Irileth turned to Gratiana gesturing to the top of the watchtower. "I can see you are carrying a bow, so I will assume you know how to use it. Go up there to the top, and as soon as you see the creature, fill it with as many arrows as you possibly can."  
  
She waited for any kind of resistance, any sign of rebellion from Gratiana for being ordered around, but the Imperial merely inclined her head in obedience, unslung her bow, and entered the watchtower, reappearing moments later at the top, her bow in her hands, an arrow nocked, and her eyes scanning the skies above.  
  
Hm. Interesting. Perhaps Gratiana had been a soldier before she turned mercenary? That was somewhat comforting; Irileth could work with a soldier, but a true mercenary might have been more questionable.  
  
She issued orders to the others, making them take positions around the watchtower and sending up two more archers - one of them a spellcaster - to join Gratiana at the top. After that, they would have to wait and see if - when - the dragon would strike.  
  
They did not have to wait for long.  
  
It started out as a loud cry that sent shivers down Irileth's spine, even if she did not want it to. This was followed by a loud whooshing of wings, and then the dragon burst out in the sky in her field of vision: a large, dark shape radiating menace.  
  
Already arrows and fireballs were flying from the top of the tower, and she followed suit: striking out first with her arrows, since they had the longer range, and whenever the dragon got close enough, switching to fireballs in an attempt to create more damage.  
  
The dragon banked, and then swooped low over the watchtower, opening its maw wide and sending a blast of fire at the top. Irileth flinched slightly at the screams, watching as a body fell off the edge and landed at the foot of the tower with a thump, still blazing.  
  
A moment later Gratiana emerged from the tower, her face set in grim lines and streaked with sweat and blood as she strode out into the waning afternoon sunlight. Behind her Irileth saw one of the archers she had sent up leaning against the tower's inner wall, moaning as he cradled his scorched right arm.  
  
 _"Yol!"_  
  
Irileth snapped her gaze back to the dragon, instantly refocusing on the battle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Gratiana standing on a piece of rubble, using the extra height to extend her bow's range and ducking behind another chunk of rubble every time the dragon blasted fire her way.  
  
She nodded to herself. The Imperial had the right of it. Shouting a string of orders at the guards that remained to do as she did, Irileth resumed the assault, taking up positions near large chunks of rubble, as Gratiana had, or near the tower itself, where they could use the stone as cover from the dragon's flames.  
  
She wasn't sure what finally brought the dragon down: it could have been one of her fireballs that had hit the creature in the eye, or it could have been that arrow - she wasn't sure whose - that had found its way into the dragon's right wing joint, or it could very well have been a combination of the two along with everything else they had been slinging at the beast. Either way, it descended, and finally landed on the ground with a thud.  
  
As soon as the dragon was on the ground, Irileth roared orders at the others, and they all redoubled the ferocity of their attack. On the ground the creature was still dangerous, but it was clumsy, and moved with difficulty while on the ground. It made maneuvering around it easier, and so they were all able to walk in wide, large circles around it, slinging more arrows and magic at it.  
  
But it didn't seem to be quite enough. They were weakening it, that much Irileth could see, but it refused to just die. She scowled. If they kept this up they would lose their edge as weariness overtook them, and even if the dragon was crippled it could still kill them all - and then move on to Whiterun.  
  
Gratiana had perhaps reached the same conclusion, but went one step farther than Irileth: she shouldered her bow, drew her sword, and strode towards the dragon, determined to end the battle once and for all.  
  
The dragon saw her coming, and then, much to Irileth's surprise, spoke to Gratiana: "You are brave." It said something in another language entirely, and added, "Your defeat brings me honor."  
  
Gratiana shook her head, and then made a dash at the dragon - a dash that took the creature by surprise. Irileth watched, still stunned, as the Imperial ducked under the wing the dragon lashed out to stop her, and, with a loud battle cry, swung her sword deep into the soft skin in between the dragon's wing joints.  
  
It was the killing blow they needed. The dragon roared, something that sounded like " _Dovahkiin!_ No!" before finally dropping to the ground with a massive thud. It did not move again.  
  
Irileth exhaled softly and turned away, relaxing now that she was sure the thing was dead. But then, a shout from one of the guards drew her attention back, her bow back up in case the dragon was not as dead after all, but found herself lowering her bow even as her eyes widened at what she was seeing.  
  
Right before her eyes, and the eyes of the remaining guards, the dragon's corpse seemed to burn itself up from the inside, flesh and skin being consumed in a conflagration that had no source they could pinpoint. But then that brightness, that fire, seemed to spiral up into the air - and into Gratiana, who stood there, seemingly rooted to the spot as she was consumed by white-hot light. Irileth knew, for certain, that the Imperial was gone for sure, that this final act of magical defiance from the dragon had killed the dealer of its deathblow.  
  
And yet, when the light cleared, Gratiana was still standing there, looking as stunned as any of them. All of a sudden, she turned away, and when she opened her mouth, Irileth thought that the Imperial would be sick. But that was not the case. Instead, what emerged from Gratiana's mouth was a resounding roar of sound, accompanied by a shockwave that rattled the dragon's carcass - now nothing more than bones held together by bits of sinew - as if the enormous bones were nothing more than a wind-chime rattled by a gentle breeze.  
  
With the shockwave came a word Irileth had never heard before: " _Fus!_ "  
  
As Gratiana straightened, and looked down at herself in horror, one of the guards - a man named Reidalv - murmured, awestruck: "Dragonborn. She-- She's Dragonborn!"


	7. Fate and Destiny

_"Did you see that?"_  
  
 _"She absorbed the dragon's soul!"_  
  
 _"And she Shouted!"_  
  
 _"Dragonborn! She has to be Dragonborn!"_   
  
Gratiana shook her head to clear out the memory threatening to overwhelm her. She loved learning about lore and history, but it was another thing entirely to be at the center of those stories.   
  
She had a general idea of what the Dragonborn was: a person who could absorb the soul of a dragon, thus turning the creature's own power against them in the form of a Shout. She also knew that Tiber Septim was one - a story she heard very early on, growing up as she had in Bruma - but beyond that and the occasional Nordic tale about heroic dragonslayers, she knew next to nothing.   
  
And that was what terrified her. It was one thing to discover something completely unexpected about a tomb, or a relic, or even about another person. But to realize that there was something about oneself that one didn't know about - that was truly frightening.   
  
Perhaps Balgruuf was right. Perhaps she should respond to the Greybeards' call and make the pilgrimage to their temple at the top of the Throat of the World. Surely they, of all people, would have answers to the questions that roiled in her mind.   
  
But what if they had no answers? What if they could tell her nothing at all about why she was the Dragonborn? They might have called her with a massive clap of thunder as she had made her stunned way back to Whiterun after killing the dragon, but what if they could tell her nothing more beyond what she already knew? What if they could not direct her properly in her new position (if it might be called that) - or, worse, what if they chose to mold her in a manner she found objectionable?   
  
There were also other, more pressing concerns - such as finding a way to make a living. She needed a permanent place to stay, and though she had been offered the opportunity to buy a house in Whiterun, she didn't quite have enough gold for it at the moment. She needed to get settled, put down roots, and then, perhaps, she could make this pilgrimage Balgruuf suggested she do.   
  
And then there were the Thalmor. They had ears everywhere. If this news of her being the Dragonborn reached them, they would hunt her down - and anyone who got in their way would be destroyed.   
  
No, she thought, the plan she had laid out for herself after escaping from Helgen was still the same: find employment, carve out a life for herself in Skyrim, and avoid the scrutiny of the Thalmor. The quest for answers could wait a while yet.   
  
With that thought in mind, she rose from her table at the Bannered Mare (now that she was done doing favors for him Balgruuf would no longer continue paying for her room and board at the inn), paid for her meal, bid Hulda a farewell, and made her way up to the Cloud District and climbed the steps up to Jorrvaskr.   
  


* * *

  
"Fight! Fight!"  
  
"Get him Njada!"   
  
"I've got five septims riding on you, Athis! Don't embarrass me!"   
  
Gratiana blinked at the sudden outburst of violence that occurred as soon as she entered Jorrvaskr, her hand flying to the hilt of her sword, preparing to defend herself from whatever or whoever came at her. But as it turned out, she was not the target: rather, it was a Nord woman and a Dunmer male engaged in a rather brutal fistfight, and everyone in the hall had turned to watch - or gamble on the outcome. It rather reminded her of the Fighters Guild in Bruma, albeit with a somewhat wilder edge.   
  
Hoping to go unnoticed, she approached an old woman who was standing off to one side. "Excuse me," Gratiana murmured, "but where may I find the leader of the Companions?"   
  
The old woman blinked, and looked at her. "Are you looking to join up?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Ah, then you should go down those stairs, turn right, and go straight ahead to the very end. You'll find Kodlak Whitemane's receiving room there."   
  
"Thank you." Gratiana smiled and nodded at the old woman, and quietly walked down the stairs she had indicated, and through the door. As soon as it closed behind her, the quiet of what she realized were the living quarters enveloped her, and she sighed in relief.   
  
She was standing in a long stone hallway, one which apparently ran the length of the entire structure, rooms branching off it at intervals - and at the room at the other end of the hall, was a light. Inhaling to steady herself, Gratiana straightened, and walked towards the light.   
  
"…getting more difficult every day."   
  
Gratiana came to a halt in the doorway of the chamber, staying in the shadows so as not to interrupt the conversation between the two people in the room. One was an old man - likely the Kodlak Whitemane the old woman had mentioned - and the other was younger, and looked remarkably similar to the burly Nord who'd smiled at her the day before.   
  
"…difficult to avoid the change," the younger one said, his deep, richly accented voice seeming to vibrate off the walls. "The call of the blood is so powerful, sometimes."   
  
The older one nodded, sympathy clear in his attitude. "I understand, Vilkas. But you must stay strong. It is the only way we can survive this."   
  
"What about the others? My brother and I are on your side, as you know, but what about the rest?"   
  
"Do not concern yourself over that, lad. Let me handle it."   
  
Sensing a pause in the conversation, Gratiana stepped further into the room, drawing the attention of both men. She nodded her head in a small bow, but kept her focus on the older of the two. "I wish to join the Companions," she said.   
  
The younger man frowned, and Gratiana knew that he thought her insolent and rude for simply come in like she did - not the best first impression, but she refused to stand by the doorway, all hangdog, until they deigned to notice her.   
  
Kodlak, however, was more thoughtful.   
  
"Do you now?" he asked, and Gratiana realized, only then, just how sharp and wise and old this man's eyes were, as if he had seen far more than a lifetime's worth of joy and sorrow and horror and ecstasy. He gestured her forward. "Come into the light, girl. Let's have a look at you."   
  
Gratiana moved forward, straightening to her full height, and never once breaking Kodlak's gaze. She wanted to show this man that she knew it was an honor to be a part of the Companions, that she knew she would have to prove her worth - and that proving such worth began here, in this moment. She wanted to prove that she had nothing to hide - well, at least, nothing that was too dangerous or threatening, at least not while the Thalmor thought she was dead. And there was nothing really dangerous about being the Dragonborn, was there?   
  
"Hm." Kodlak nodded thoughtfully, smiling just a little. "Interesting. You have depths of strength in your spirit that are not obvious to the casual observer. But your eyes say much." He nodded again, and leaned back. "Perhaps you'll do."   
  
Gratiana blinked. Was that it? Surely acceptance into the Companions was not that easy.   
  
Apparently, the younger man was thinking the same thing, because his frown became an expression of outright surprise. "Master, surely you cannot be thinking of taking her on. We don't even know who she is. How can we know if she has any honor, any worth, if we do not know who she is?"   
  
"I am no one's master, Vilkas," Kodlak said, his voice gentle but firm. "As for her fame, well, that will come in time. Some come to us with renown already upon them; others find that renown by proving themselves amongst us." He looked at Gratiana again. "How are you in a fight, girl?"   
  
"I do well enough," Gratiana replied, trying not to sound like she was bragging, but sure in her skills. She wondered if any of the Companions had fought draugr before.   
  
"We shall see." He gestured to the young man. "This is Vilkas. He will test your arm." Turning to the younger man - Vilkas - he added, "Take her out to the training yard and see what she can do."   
  
Ah. So there was a test, after all.   
  
The young man scowled, but said nothing as he got to his feet, nodding at Gratiana in an unmistakable gesture to follow him. Gratiana glanced back at Kodlak, who had a small smile on his face, but was also staring at her in a highly speculative manner, as if she was potentially the answer to a question that had been bothering him for a while, but was still unsure if she was the one he was looking for.   
  
Well, no matter. She would prove herself worthy.

* * *

She was quiet. A little _too_ quiet, for his liking. Vilkas was more accustomed to arrogant, blustering idiots coming through the doors of Jorrvaskr seeking to join the Companions - most of whom did not even _make_ it to this test in the training yard. Oftentimes, all it took was one look from Skjor or Kodlak and they'd make their excuses and leave.   
  
But this Imperial woman was another thing entirely. There was no arrogance in her stance, no bluster. She walked a line between wariness and confidence, aware of her own skills but careful enough to take caution when confronting an enemy she knew nothing about.   
  
Vilkas approved of the mindset - except his admiration irritated him, as well. Was it his wolf telling him that there was something not quite right with her? He inhaled, trying to catch the scent of something, _anything_ that might be considered suspicious, but caught nothing except the cool, slightly bitter smell of caution emanating from her. Again, such a scent ought to have told him that she was a capable fighter, one who thought things through before acting on them, and yet…   
  
He growled softly to himself as they stepped out into the training yard. He ignored the curious look his brother shot at him, and instead strode to the center, watching as the Imperial approached, watching him.   
  
Vilkas drew his sword, and took a defensive stance. "Well, Kodlak said to test your arm, so here we are. Take a few swings at me so I can see your form." He smirked, rolling his shoulders. "And don't worry, I can take it."   
  
The Imperial nodded, drew her sword - and stood there, unmoving, just watching him. Vilkas frowned. What was she do-   
  
And then she moved, her sword lancing in front of her in a killing blow, and Vilkas had no choice but to step aside and strike her sword out of the way with his own. "Watch it girl, this is just a-"   
  
He cut his words off with a startled grunt as he parried a slash from above, forcing him another step back. A part of him - the one that was still human - admired her skill, because it was obvious from the way she moved that she was a tactical fighter, taking advantage of her own strengths and employing them against her enemy's weaknesses. She had assessed that he was slower than she, and had pressed her advantage by not only attacking first, but attacking continuously. It was how he, himself, preferred to fight, and he could readily appreciate another fighter who took the same approach he did.   
  
But the other, baser part of him - the wolf - sensed only danger and threat, because it was clear that when this Imperial woman was challenged, she took that challenge _very_ seriously.   
  
She slashed at him again, and this time he had enough sense to counterattack, pushing her back hard enough to make her stagger, but not fall. If he wanted to he could have pushed her back with enough force to hurl her back against the wall around Jorrvaskr, but this was only a test - never mind what his wolf thought of the situation.   
  
"Enough," he growled, more wolf than man, though he hoped the Imperial did not notice that. Said Imperial stopped just shy of another slash, lowering her sword to a ready position, though she did not sheathe it until Vilkas had sheathed his own sword.   
  
"Not bad," he said as he approached her. "You may find a place for yourself amongst us, yet. But for now, you are still a whelp to us, new blood, so do what you'll do what you're told." He drew his sword, and held it out to her, hilt first. "Take this up to Eorlund to have it sharpened. And make sure you don't drop it; it's probably worth more than you."   
  
The first response he got was a sharpening of her gaze, along with one brow coming up at his orders. That hint of rebellion was quickly, quelled, however, as she accepted his sword with a slight tilt of her head in acquiescence.   
  
"And where might I find this Eorlund?" she asked.   
  
"Up there, at the Skyforge," Vilkas replied, pointing to the stairs that led upwards to where Eorlund worked. He waved his hand as if shooing away an annoying puppy - which, in the hierarchy of Jorrvaskr, she technically was. "Off with you, then."   
  
This time her raised brow was accompanied by a slight pursing of her mouth and narrowing of her eye, but she said nothing further as she turned and followed his directions, making her way up to the Skyforge on his orders.   
  
"That wasn't very nice."   
  
Vilkas shrugged as he grabbed Farkas' mug, draining the last inch of mead in one gulp. "She's just some stranger, come off the street, thinking she can be counted amongst the Companions. She's not proven herself yet."   
  
Farkas shrugged, and said nothing further, but being his twin brother Vilkas was entirely too aware what Farkas' silences meant, and this particular one had the faint air of condemnation around it.   
  
"What?" he all but snarled.   
  
Farkas turned to look at him. "I like her. She's interesting."   
  
"Of course you would," Vilkas muttered. "You always say that about the new bloods."   
  
"She's different." Farkas settled deeper into his chair, making the wood creak. "Don't know why. But she is."   
  
Vilkas waited for his twin to say something further, but when Farkas didn't add any further commentary on the new blood, he sighed, and turned, heading back into Jorrvaskr to report back to Kodlak regarding the newest addition to the Companions.


	8. A Place to Rest One's Head

When Gratiana decided that the best way to establish herself in Skyrim was to join the Companions, she had expected a few things. She had expected to be tested, of course - no elite group of warriors ever allowed the untried or the unskilled into its ranks, and for good reason. She expected she would go largely unnoticed, too - at least at first, given that she was the most junior amongst them and had yet to prove herself. Those were things she could handle: she had passed the test, and as for going unnoticed, that was something that suited her just fine.   
  
What she had not expected, however, was to be treated like a servant, ordered about as if carrying things back and forth was all she was good for. Not even the most junior members of the Fighters' Guild in Bruma had been made to do the kind of thing Vilkas had just ordered her to do, and she ought to know: she had grown up with some of them.   
  
But that was neither here nor there. She had nowhere else to go, not until she had enough money, and while joining the Companions was not the only option available to her, it was the most expedient and possibly the safest. Some months with them, maybe a year, and she would be able to venture out into Skyrim without having to worry overmuch about the Thalmor. At best, they would have forgotten about her; at worst, she would have made enough allies to help her fight them off.   
  
If the Companions were willing to take the risk of fighting against the Thalmor. Gratiana hoped it would never have to come to that.   
  
An errant lick of warm air, redolent with the smell of hot metal, brushed her cheek as she reached the top of the stairs Vilkas had pointed to her. She was standing on what appeared to be a platform of ancient construction, one side open and overlooking Jorrvaskr, while on the other was an impressive fire pit with all the accoutrements necessary to make a proper forge, shielded from the winds coming off the plain by what turned out to be an immense sculpture of an eagle, rough-hewn out of the mountain rock. Standing at the forge, working the bellows, was a heavily-muscled Nord. With his back to her she would have guessed him to be just five years older than herself, but the white-and-gray fall of his hair told her that he was far older than his physique suggested.   
  
Hefting the sword with just a little less care than she supposed Vilkas might have liked, she approached, and asked, "Excuse me, are you Eorlund?"   
  
The smith tugged one last time on the pulleys he used to pump the bellows, which uttered a huge huff that made the coals in the fire pit glow a deep cherry red. After that, he turned to her, and nodded. "Aye, I am indeed Eorlund Gray-mane." He squinted at her slightly. "You're the new-blood, I presume?"   
  
Gratiana nodded. "My name is Gratiana. It is a pleasure to meet you."   
  
Eorlund snorted as he walked away from her, heading towards his grindstone. "It'd do you good to lose the fancy manners, girl. They don't count for much amongst the Companions."   
  
"Well, beg pardon for not wanting to be rude," Gratiana snapped, and then clenched her jaw when she realized what she had said. "Sorry."   
  
This time, Eorlund glanced up at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and chuckled. "So you do have a temper after all. Ria said you were all frost and ice, but you do have some fire, it seems."   
  
Gratiana had no idea who Ria was, and what could have given him or her the impression that she was "all frost and ice," as Eorlund had put it. She held out Vilkas' sword. "Vilkas asked me to bring this to you for sharpening."   
  
"Ha! Ordered you, more like," Eorlund said, taking the sword from her. "Next time, don't let him get away with it. Amongst the Companions, every man is his own, and every woman, her own. You do not need to do something you'd much rather not."   
  
"I'll keep that in mind, thank you." Gratiana replied, smiling wryly. She glanced down at the roof of Jorrvaskr. "Are you a Companion?"   
  
"Me? No." There was a screech of metal on stone as Eorlund started sharpening something, which started out shrill but changed in tone to something familiar and almost pleasant. It put Gratiana to mind of the time she spent hanging around the smithy in Bruma as a child, drawn as much by curiosity at the unique process that turned raw metals into sharp weapons and gleaming armor as the warmth of the forge, especially during winter. "I work the Skyforge, as my ancestors have before me. It is enough for me to support the Companions by providing them with the finest steel in Skyrim."   
  
Gratiana nodded thoughtfully. "They are very well-armed, then," she remarked. "I've heard stories about the Skyforge."   
  
She remembered what her mother told her about the Skyforge when she was a child, telling the lore in the form of a bedtime story. It was said the children of the Aedra created it, to draw power from Nirn to help in their creation of glories now long gone; the Nords had a legend about how Kyne, also known as Kynareth, blessed it and consecrated it as a gift to all mortal races - or at least, those who were worthy. Only the bravest heroes could wield Skyforge steel, and only the best smiths could work its flames.   
  
"Whatever you've heard, it's likely true," Eorlund said, and there was a deep note of pride in his voice. "It's said that Tiber Septim himself wielded weapons made of Skyforge steel. More than a few Dragonborn, as well."   
  
Gratiana felt the word "Dragonborn" prickle at her nerves, as if it had a life of its own - and perhaps it did. She flicked her wrists discreetly to shake off the sensation, and turned back to Eorlund. "My thanks for your time. If you will excuse me…"   
  
"Hold a moment."   
  
Gratiana paused, and watched as Eorlund rose from his grindstone, and picked up a shield that had been propped up against the side of his anvil. Handing it to her, he said: "Bring this to Aela. She should be inside."   
  
"What happened to not jumping at orders?" Gratiana asked with a teasing smile as she accepted the shield.   
  
Eorlund chuckled again. "That's better. A favor to me, then." He paused, and then continued, his voice lower: "My wife is in mourning. I need to return to her as soon as I can."   
  
Sympathy welled up in Gratiana's heart for him, even if he had not mentioned specifics. Death was an accepted fact of life in Skyrim, but it didn't make the loss of a loved one any easier. "Of course," she murmured. "I shall be going then."   
  
Eorlund nodded, and said nothing further - not that Gratiana expected him to. Hefting the shield in a manner that made it easier to carry, she descended the steps, and in the deepening twilight, entered Jorrvaskr.   
  


* * *

"I saw her sparring with Vilkas. She seemed capable."  
  
"I had the same thought, after she helped us with the giant." Aela wrinkled her nose. "A sword, though? I assumed she preferred the bow."  
  
Skjor shrugged. "Perhaps she's one of those fighters who uses one weapon for long-range, and another for short. And she's calculating, too; I saw how she gauged Vilkas before engaging him."  
  
Oh? Well now, that was interesting, Aela thought. "A thinking fighter." She was beginning to like the newcomer more and more.  
  
"Much like Vilkas himself," Skjor remarked.  
  
"Ha! Hopefully not _too_  much."  
  
"Excuse me, are you Aela?"  
  
Aela turned to the door, and saw the new blood standing there, partially hidden in shadow. "Yes," she replied. "Why?"  
  
"Eorlund asked me to give this to you." At that the new blood stepped into the light, and Aela recognized her as the Imperial who'd helped them fight the giant a few days ago - the very same one who had sparred with Vilkas earlier in the training yard.  
  
"So you did take my advice," Aela said, nodding her thanks as she accepted the shield. "The old man saw something in you, did he?"  
  
"So he says," the new blood replied. "I'm not entirely sure what he meant."  
  
Skjor huffed in amusement. "Kodlak's an excellent judge of character. If he thinks you have potential, then you do; it's up to you to live up to his assessment."   
  
Aela watched the new blood's expression, and noticed the glint of resolve and agreement in gray eyes. This pleased Aela - she had been right to invite her to come to Jorrvaskr after all. "What's your name again, new blood?"  
  
"Gratiana."  
  
Skjor snorted at the Imperial name, but Aela ignored him - as did Gratiana, who did not react at all to Skjor's amusement. It wasn't an act either: Aela's wolf-sharpened senses would have picked up any sharp shift in Gratiana's emotions, and there was none at all, except perhaps a faint hint of resignation.  
  
Yes, Aela thought, she could come to like this Gratiana.  
  
"Speaking of assessment," she began, "I hear you sparred with Vilkas earlier. Tell me: could you have beaten him in a real fight?"  
  
Gratiana blinked, and then a small, wry smile twisted her lips as she shook her head. "I'm not one for boasting - especially for some hypothetical accomplishment."  
  
This time, Skjor laughed aloud. "That's probably what Kodlak's seen in you, girl: you're sensible enough to know better than the swaggering braggarts who come looking to join us."  
  
Gratiana shrugged. "Perhaps. I hope that is the case."  
  
Aela exchanged a glance with Skjor, and the latter nodded slightly. Aela nodded back in agreement: Kodlak had done well in letting this Imperial join. She would go far in the ranks of the Companions - provided, of course, she could prove herself worthy.  
  
"Let's have Farkas show you where you'll be resting your head," Skjor said then, and he bellowed Farkas' name, causing Gratiana to wince slightly at the sound. A few moments later Farkas arrived, and Aela entrusted Gratiana to his guidance.  
  
It would not be for long, though. One day - hopefully soon - Gratiana would have proven herself sufficiently capable to hunt alongside Aela. Her skill with the bow was already formidable; time spent earning her keep as a new blood would only improve them further.  
  
"Kodlak was right - perhaps more than he thought. She has potential," Sjkor said, as soon as he was certain that the new blood and Farkas were far away enough that even Farkas' wolf-enhanced hearing would not pick up what he was saying. "Perhaps one day…"  
  
Aela nodded, her wolf echoing its agreement in her soul. "One day," she said. "One day."  
  


* * *

"Well, here we are."  
  
Gratiana peered around Farkas' immense bulk at the room behind him, and took in the state of it. She did her best not to wrinkle her nose: she liked her privacy, and it was quickly becoming apparent that Jorrvaskr had no notion of what privacy meant.   
  
Still, it was better than having to constantly pay for a room at the inn. She would just have to live with it, for now; once she had enough money she would buy Breezehome and she could have as much privacy as she wanted.  
  
"Not what you were hoping for?"  
  
Gratiana glanced over at Farkas, wondering how he'd managed to figure out what she was thinking. Had she been that obvious? She certainly hoped not. "How did you know?"  
  
Farkas shrugged, and Gratiana thought he would explain, but instead, he said: "Come see me tomorrow. I've got a job for you."  
  
Gratiana nodded. "All right."  
  
"Good." This time, he smiled, and Gratiana wondered how in the world he was Vilkas' brother, when they had such different temperaments. "Get some rest."  
  
"Yes. And thank you."   
  
"You're welcome." With that Farkas wandered off, heading for the stairs that led up to the main mead hall, leaving Gratiana alone - at least for now, because she was certain that the other new recruits would eventually find their way into the communal sleeping area. She could only hope none of them snored too loudly.  
  
She sighed and, knowing that these moments of quiet would be few and far between for the foreseeable future, she stripped off her armor and changed into more comfortable clothing before falling into the nearest bed, and slipping immediately into sleep.


End file.
